


Ambrosia

by FenZev, Wintryone



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Humor, Conspiracy, F/M, Family Drama, Father-Daughter Relationship, Father-Son Relationship, Friendship, Intrigue, Mystery, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-08
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2017-12-14 08:36:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 84,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/834866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FenZev/pseuds/FenZev, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wintryone/pseuds/Wintryone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Hawkes are a family of wealth and privilege in Kirkwall, yet<br/>eldest daughter Amber prefers the company of her Lowtown friends. While her<br/>father struggles to maintain peace between Gallows and Circle, adventurous<br/>Hawke discovers some of Kirkwall's darker secrets, including an apostate mage<br/>with secrets of his own. AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Put two obsessed writers together, and interesting things always happen! The idea for this story popped up during random conversation, and within hours we had this tale plotted and the first chapter written. I swear, it is truly like magic! We are already in love with this story, and hope you enjoy it, too! Let us know what you think - you know how we love to hear from you!

**CHAPTER ONE**

"No, I forbid it," Leandra said imperiously. "You will not leave the house looking like that."

"Mother, I am of age," Hawke replied, as she buckled the last strap on her new leathers and smoothed her hands down over her hips. They fit her perfectly, and she couldn't wait to show Varric. "You can't tell me what to do anymore."

"I don't care how old you are, Ambrosia," Leandra said, trying to keep her voice calm, but Hawke could see the color blooming in her cheeks. "You are a Hawke. Nobility. What will the Reinhardts think if they see you dressed in... whatever that is."

"Don't call me that," said Hawke. "Why can't you call me Amber, like everyone else?"

Leandra ignored her daughter's complaint and pointed her finger up the grand staircase. "You will go upstairs and put on clothes that befit your station. Right this minute."

As if Leandra's finger had summoned her, Bethany appeared at the top of the stairway. As she descended, her mother smiled. Bethany certainly knew how to behave, and she always looked so proper, so beautiful. Her blue satin robes were impeccable, her dark hair coiffed in perfect curls that spilled artfully down her back. Bethany's carriage was that of a lady - her posture perfect, her elegant hand trailing lightly down the banister as she approached them.

"I won't," insisted Hawke, as she checked the straps of her daggers to make sure they were secure. Despite her mother's constant objections, Hawke had been training with her blades since her tenth birthday, when she'd received them as a gift from her beloved father.

"What won't she do now?" asked Bethany, eyeing her older sister's apparel with some distaste.

"She's going out, dressed like that," Leandra said as she took Bethany's hand. "Why she can't be more like..." Leandra quickly stopped her words and glanced back at Hawke.

"It's no secret," Hawke said. "Why can't I be more like Bethany, right?" Hawke shook her head, but there was a smile curving her lips. She wasn't jealous of her younger sister - she felt sorry for the coddled way Leandra treated her.

"What would your father think if he saw you dressed like this?" Leandra tried as a final appeal. She knew full well that her eldest daughter only ever cared what Malcolm thought. Her own efforts to control Hawke always came to nothing.

Approaching footsteps caused all three woman to turn their heads toward the vestibule. In walked Malcolm Hawke, dressed in his formal black robes, a long, silver staff at his back. "I think it's fine, if that's what Amber chooses to wear," he said, smiling at his daughter. She skipped across the floor and threw her arms around his neck.

"Hello, daddy dearest," Hawke said, and smacked him on the cheek with a loud kiss.

"Hello to you, daughter," he said as he wrapped her in his embrace. They hugged tightly for a moment before Hawke pulled away.

"I'm going to meet Varric," she told him. "Need anything from Lowtown while I'm out?"

"No time to sit and have a meal with your family?" Malcolm asked playfully.

"Tomorrow, I promise," she said as she moved to the door. "Don't wait up!"

⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼

The stench of stale ale and poorly cooked stew were welcoming aromas to Hawke as she entered the Hanged Man. She felt more at home here than in her actual home; the grime and smoke so much more comfortable than the pristine walls and fancy furniture of the Hawke estate. While she loved her family, there was something to be said about the company of friends, who appreciated her for herself. None of them cared that her last name was Hawke, or that her mother was of the  _Amell line._

She spotted Varric sitting in his usual corner, chatting with the locals about some story he no doubt created that morning. Hawke loved listening to his tales of adventure; it was one of the reasons she adored hanging out with him. The dwarf always had something up his sleeve to keep the boredom away, and she had high hopes that tonight would be no different.

"And then, wait for it... Isabela came out of the shadows and completely distracts the man with her breasts! He never knew what hit him, poor bastard." Varric shook his head as if he could hardly believe it himself. "She nearly sliced off his leg. It was beautiful!"

Hawke smiled as she approached the table. Varric's telling of last night's adventure was more exuberant than she remembered the actual event had been. He noticed her approach and offered her a wide grin in return.

"Did you get to the part where I distracted the other thugs by kissing Isabela?" she asked.

"And here I was, saving that for the epic climax!" Varric said, faking his disappointment very cleverly. "Oh well, I guess storytime's over folks."

Isabela pouted. "The kiss was the best part of that tale," she said, winking at Hawke.

Hawke joined Varric and Isabela, once the eager listeners had begrudgingly departed, but not before they'd taken a long look at both Hawke and Isabela. Hawke was certain she knew what images those boys were conjuring in their minds, and she rolled her eyes. "Sorry Varric, maybe I should've left that for you to tell."

"I doubt they want to hear it, as much as see it," he responded with a chuckle, and gestured to Norah to bring over another drink. "I gotta say, the new threads look good on you, Hawke. Bianca approves."

"I'm glad your crossbow appreciates a nice set of armor," Hawke joked, adjusting her gloves. "My mother, of course, wasn't too thrilled."

"Uh oh," Varric said, sensing a story.

Hawke nodded, before resting her head on Isabela's shoulder. "You know Mother, always trying to create the perfect noble daughter. One wearing finely crafted dwarven armor doesn't exactly fit that description."

"Isn't Sunshine enough for her?" Varric asked, referring to Bethany by the nickname he'd given her. Varric was fond of her entire family, even her mother, to Hawke's constant disbelief. The first time he'd met Hawke's younger sister, he'd said,  _Why look at you, like a glimpse of sunshine on a gloomy day._

"Apparently not," she sighed. "So, I'm hoping you have something for us to do tonight? I could use a distraction."

Varric shook his head. "Nope, sorry. But if you're bored, you could rescue your brother over there."

Hawke groaned before casting a glance in the direction Varric had nodded. "Not again," she said. It seemed every other night she was helping her brother out of a scrape.

Carver's mop of dark hair was easy to spot in the crowd of men huddled around a table in the far corner. From the looks of it, there was a very intense game of Serpents going on, and the expression on her brother's face made it obvious that he was not doing well. Next to him sat their uncle, Gamlen Amell, looking just as anxious as his nephew. She watched as he took a long sip of his drink, and then nervously ran a hand through his hair.

"How long has this been going on?" Hawke asked.

"Hours," Isabela told her. "And your brother has a filthier mouth on him than most of the men I've sailed with." She paused, and a wide smile spread over her face. "Doesn't mean I wouldn't mind a taste, though."

Hawke wrinkled her nose. "Really Isabela? That's my brother, and oh so gross."

Isabela laughed. "For you maybe," she said, eyeing the younger sibling. "Unfortunately, he always smells like a brewery."

"Gamlen's influence," Hawke said. "That uncle of mine is a thorn in the family's side. I'm amazed my father continues to support him, the way he goes through coin. Carver will end up just like him, if he isn't careful."

Norah arrived with her drink, and Hawke took a long, slow pull on the watery ale. She forced herself to look away from her brother, not wanting to see the outcome of his latest hand. As she scanned the rest of the crowd of the Hanged Man, the front door swung open, and Hawke watched curiously to see if it was someone she knew.

A tall man, dressed in odd robes, entered the room. The feathers on his shoulders caught her eye first, and then her gaze drifted to his face. Handsome enough, with his golden hair pulled back in a ponytail, and a dusting of stubble across his chin. She watched as he pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly uncomfortable in his surroundings. An apostate of some sort? Brave of him to walk around the city dressed like that. In Kirkwall, only her father and sister dared to flaunt their freedom, but they had the protection of her father's influence.

Who was this man?

The stranger began walking toward them, and Hawke took another sip of her drink, nerves suddenly flooding her belly. Isabela leaned forward on the table, displaying her enormous cleavage for his inspection.

"I'm supposed to meet a dwarf, you him?" asked the golden-haired man.

Varric laughed. "See any other dwarves here, my friend?"

"No," the man responded, his voice carrying a soft accent that Hawke couldn't place. "But then again, the air in here is making my eyes water."

"You'll soon get used to that." Varric rose from the table and made a slight bow. "If you two ladies will excuse me, and I use the term loosely for you Isabela, I have business to attend to."

"Varric," Isabela purred. "You're such a tease. Aren't you going to introduce us to your handsome new friend?"

Retrieving his crossbow from where she rested against the wall, Varric shook his head. "My room's right upstairs," he told the stranger. "It's much quieter and has fewer distractions."

Hawke had remained silent during the interaction, staring into the man's coppery eyes. They were soft, gentle, but there was also a hint of mystery in their depths. She was fascinated, and that surprised her. When his gaze met hers, she quickly turned her head, an embarrassed flush warming her cheeks.

Varric gestured for the mage to precede him up the stairs, and paused before he followed. "Don't even think about it, Rosebud," he offered as a warning to Hawke. "You don't want anything to do with him."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Varric," she said, hiding her expression behind her dark hair.

Isabela considered teasing Hawke about her sudden shyness, but a commotion near Carver's table stopped her. "Time to save that brother of yours, Amber," she said, as she stood and retrieved a hidden knife from her boot.

Hawke turned and saw three very large men standing over her brother and uncle. Glancing toward the stairs, she saw Varric had already shut the door to his room. It was up to her and Isabela to take care of this.

At least it was something to do.

"I saw you pull that serpent from your sleeve!" the largest of the men, Dante, was shouting directly into Carver's face.

"Calm down, serah," Gamlen slurred, as he tried to rise from his seat, but failed. His foot caught on the chair's leg and sent him tumbling to the wooden floor, where he lay gazing up at them stupidly.

Carver did manage to stand, and towered over his accuser, swaying slightly. "Are you calling me a cheater?" he asked belligerently.

As soon as Hawke and Isabela reached the table, the sour stench of whisky almost made her wretch. Why her mother was always berating her for not being a proper young lady, while her precious son could do no wrong, Hawke did not understand. Her brother's drinking and womanizing had earned him a reputation in Kirkwall - one Leandra conveniently ignored.

Hawke positioned herself between Carver and Dante. "What's going on?" she asked, putting a hard edge in her voice that wasn't normally there.

"What's it to ya?" Dante asked. He turned to face her, and placed a meaty hand on her shoulder.

"Hands off my sister!" Carver shouted, and threw a wild punch that landed on the side of the man's head.

The slide of daggers being drawn from their sheaths was suddenly the only sound in the bar. Dante had grabbed Carver by his shirt and was backing him into the wall, while the other two circled behind Hawke and Isabela. Carver's face went pale from the knife suddenly held to his throat, but Hawke could not aid her brother. Another of the card players, a sharp-faced, sandy-haired man, began to lunge at her with a wickedly curved blade.

Hawke had been so focused on Carver, that she barely dodged the man's attack. His blade caught her in the arm, and a considerable gash now bled onto her new gloves. "I just got these!" she huffed in frustration while defending herself against his drunken swings. It would've been easy to take the man down with her skill, but Hawke didn't want to seriously injure him - he was highly intoxicated, and obviously not thinking clearly. So, she waited for the perfect opportunity, and when he leaned in to strike, she swiftly side-stepped to the left and then kneed him in the groin - a convenient trick she'd learned from Isabela.

The man fell to his knees with a low grunt, all thoughts of attack obliterated from his mind, as blinding pain shot through his body. Hawke kicked his weapon across the floor when he dropped it, his hands flying to cover his precious jewels.

Carver and Dante were still tangled in the corner, exchanging angry words. She marveled at her brother's ability to still be a twit, even when his life was at stake. Hawke quietly approached the two, and bringing her blade around to the larger man's throat, she whispered in his ear. "If you would be so kind as to remove your blade from my brother's neck, I would appreciate it."

"Why, you bitch!" Dante shouted, and Hawke feared things might have just gone from bad to worse.

"Halt!" came a shout from the doorway, and Hawke recognized the voice instantly, relief flooding through her. It was Aveline, come to the rescue once again.

How many times had the guardswoman saved Carver from his own drunken debauchery? More times than Hawke cared to count. It was how they had met, in fact. Not long after Aveline had come to Kirkwall with her Templar husband Wesley, she'd taken a position with the city guard. As much trouble as Carver got into, it was no surprise that eventually Hawke had come to know Aveline by name, and they'd quickly developed an odd sort of friendship.

Within minutes, Aveline and her two companions had corralled the men against the wall, and in that calm way she had, was explaining to them why they would leave quietly right this minute, or spend the night in jail.

"Amber!" called Isabela. "You're bleeding, sweet thing."

Hawke glanced down at the long gash on her forearm and winced. She hated to ask Bethany for healing, and wondered idly if the potion stand was still open this late at night. Hawke glanced back at Isabela, and saw a short, but deep cut across her jaw. "So are you," Hawke told her, and reached out to wipe the blood from her friend's face.

This was the scene Varric walked into, followed by the tall stranger, who eyed them all curiously.

"Brother trouble again?" Varric asked as he surveyed the damage. "This one's gonna cost you, Hawke."

She glanced around and saw several broken chairs, and a whole tray of mugs shattered on the floor. Before she could reach for her coinpurse, however, Carver staggered over to her, his hand filled with gold.

"That lot won't be needing this," he said with a crooked grin. He pushed it into Hawke's hands, causing her to cringe from the pain in her arm. Distracted by her brother, Hawke wasn't aware that the mage was now by her side.

"Let me see your wound," said Varric's odd companion. He took her arm in his warm hands, and the soothing wash of a healing spell soon dispelled the sting. She gazed up into his eyes, her lips forming a soft 'thank you', but before she could speak, he turned and walked toward the door.

Isabela called after him. "Hey! I'm bleeding, too!" But the mage kept walking and did not turn back.

"Varric?" Hawke asked, and her unspoken question was clearly understood by her friend.

"Listen Rosebud," he said seriously. "Don't ask. Just forget you ever saw him."

Hawke nodded slowly, even though she doubted she could follow his advice. A handsome, mysterious apostate in Kirkwall? Not an easy thing to ignore.


	2. Chapter 2

“You are the best sister I ever had,” Carver slurred loudly.

“Shhh! You’ll wake the whole house,” Hawke whispered.

“What would I do without...” He hiccupped loudly, and the stench of whiskey exploded in Hawke’s face.

It was this way nearly every night. Her brother spent his evenings with Gamlen, losing at cards and drinking, and unable to make it home on his own. He’d wax on about how wonderful Hawke was, thanking her profusely for helping him out, while leaning heavily on her smaller form as they made their way back to the estate. On the mornings he actually managed to wake up, he’d forget his gratitude of the night before, and spend the entire breakfast complaining about Hawke’s association with the _lower classes._

“Ouch!” Hawke yelled when Carver elbowed her in the ribs. They were attempting to negotiate their way up the stairway, their ultimate goal his bedroom.

“Sorry, sister,” he replied groggily. “It’s just I have this itch...”

A sliver of yellow light appeared on the carpeted floor of the upstairs landing. Hawke glanced up to see Bethany standing in the doorway of her own bedroom, a judgmental frown on her face. Yet, her sister’s words sent a wave of relief flooding through Hawke.

“Need some help?” she asked. Although her tone could be called unfriendly at best, Hawke hardly cared.

“Yes, please,” she replied, gratefully.

Bethany strolled out into the hallway looking as if she was prepared to attend a ball. Her long, dark hair was piled on top of her head, and the golden threads of her dressing gown glimmered in the low light as she opened the door to Carver’s room. Hawke grunted under his weight, but didn’t bother to complain to her sister.

Bethany never helped Hawke with the physical part of getting Carver settled for the night, but she had a valuable skill, one which Hawke lacked.

Carver was whistling off-key, as Hawke pushed her brother onto the bed and began to pull of his boots.

“Why you keep rescuing him, I’ll never understand,” said Bethany. Nevertheless, a soft blue light began to gather around her delicate hands as she approached the bed. There at last was the skill Hawke had been waiting for... magic. Hawke had never resented her sister for inheriting her father’s gift, when she herself had not, but Bethany seemed to take inordinate pleasure in lording it over her. Hence, the current production her sister now made, as she pushed back her sleeves and wiggled her fingers, as if to make sure Hawke was properly impressed.

“If you were a drunken slob, I’d do the same for you,” Hawke replied, ignoring Bethany’s antics as she always did. She swung Carver’s legs up, and threw a blanket over him. It was her own sweet revenge, allowing him to sleep in his sweaty, smelly clothes.

“Me?” Bethany exclaimed, and finally released a sleep spell to envelope Carver’s prostrate form. His whistling abruptly stopped. “I would never!”

“No, I don’t suppose you would,” Hawke replied good-naturedly. Her mood had instantly improved the second Carver began to snore.

Bethany crossed her arms over her ample chest and glared down at her brother. “He needs to grow up and take responsibility. He is a Hawke, after all.”

In this instance, she did agree with her sister. “It’s Gamlen’s influence, more than anything,” Hawke said. It was a litany she repeated often, without result. No one could seem to keep her wayward uncle and her brother apart for long.

“Well, he should think of his future,” Bethany replied haughtily. “With Father’s influence, Carver could be Viscount someday.”

Hawke couldn’t stop the laughter that welled up inside of her and spilled through her lips. She clamped a hand to her mouth, afraid she’d wake her parents with the noise.

“I’m serious,” Bethany pouted. “He’s ruining his life.”

Hawke just shook her head, afraid if she spoke, she’d start laughing again. She took her sister’s arm and led her from the room. She was weary beyond measure of the stench of spirits, and couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

“Thanks,” Hawke managed, and pressed a quick kiss to her sister’s cheek, mostly because she knew Bethany hated it when she did. She was rewarded with Bethany’s weak smile and a wave of her fingers as her sister retreated back down the hallway.

Within moments, Hawke was in her own room, and released a long sigh. Sometimes she could hardly believe Bethany and Carver were twins, so opposite were their personalities. The only way they were similar were their self-important attitudes. Being a _Hawke_ meant everything to them. Sometimes, she wished her parents had left Kirkwall when they married. Given up their wealth and privilege and raised their family on a farm, out in the country somewhere. She wondered how Bethany and Carver would have turned out, in her imaginary world.

Once she was ready for bed, and sat braiding her hair for the night, her idle thoughts turned to things other than family drama. Of their own accord, they drifted to a pair of coppery eyes, and the warmth of long fingers holding her wrist. Hawke shook her head and smiled. She was acting like a silly girl, instead of the young woman she now was. It wasn’t as if she had any interest in romance at this point in her life. Her _special_ friendship with Isabela was lots of fun, and required absolutely no commitment. Hawke liked it that way, and wouldn’t change a thing.

After her third yawn, she finally set her brush on the nightstand and crawled under the covers, nestling into her soft bed. Another long sigh, and Hawke closed her eyes, drifting off into the Fade.

 

⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼

 

Morning was Hawke’s favorite time of day. Leandra and Bethany often slept late, either due to some fancy party they had attended the previous evening, or because of the “beauty sleep” each claimed they required. Carver spent the morning, and much of the afternoon asleep, recovering from the copious amounts of liquor consumed the night before. With the rest of the estate in quiet slumber, Hawke spent every morning with her father.

“Good morning, Peacekeeper,” Hawke greeted him, using his official title. “Off to save the city from corruption and greed again?”

“Every day,” Malcolm said with a playful sigh. He poured Hawke a cup of the morning tea he had prepared, as she sat at the table beside him. “Today’s battle, I believe, is telling Meredith that her request for monthly Harrowings was denied."

Hawke nearly choked on the sip of tea she’d just consumed, and said in astonishment, "She thought that would pass?"

Malcolm nodded. "You'd be surprised what that woman asks for. Maker knows how she got the position of knight-commander to begin with."

I bet Orsino wasn’t too thrilled,” Hawke commented.

Malcolm shrugged. “I wouldn’t know, I didn’t bother to tell him. Part of being Peacekeeper is knowing what to relay to the two of them, and what to keep to myself. This city would have degraded into war years ago, had I informed either of them what the other was considering to put in the rulebook. I’m just lucky the Viscount leaves me to deal with them.”

“Dumar is an idiot,” Hawke stated. “The man doesn’t have a brain in his head. I think it’s the thorny crown he wears.”

Malcolm chuckled. “You may be right, Amber.” His jovial mood shifted, and his expression turned serious. “You’re up early for having come home so late.”

Hawke was never very good at hiding anything from her father. While she had made every effort to sneak into the estate quietly, Malcolm always knew when she had escorted Carver home after another one of his more difficult nights. “I don’t have a big day planned, not much sleep required,” she said, trying to deflect a discussion of her brother.

“You consistently play the role of parent when it comes to controlling his behavior, and I apologize for that,” Malcolm said solemnly.

Hawke reached out to cover his hand with hers. “It’s alright Father, I don’t mind, really. I mean, it’s a lot more acceptable for me to be seen in Lowtown than you or Mother.”

Malcolm shook his head. “It is not alright. If Gamlen were not your mother’s brother, I would have banished him from this city long ago for his unruly influence over my son. This is a burden you should not have to bear.”

The sadness in her father’s eyes brought tears to her own. “You have enough to worry about,” Hawke reminded him. “Let me worry about Carver.”

“When I come home this evening, I will have a serious discussion with that boy,” Malcolm said. “I grow weary of his antics, and if he doesn’t straighten up soon, I will force him to get a job. He should be doing something other than his current occupation of bench warmer at the Hanged Man.”

“Careful, you’re insulting Varric’s favorite pastime,” Hawke said with a grin, trying to lighten the mood.

“Indeed it is,” Malcolm said, and his smile returned as he stood. “Tell him to pay me a visit this week, I may have an assignment for him. For now, there are kittens in trees, and mages in the Gallows, all needing to be saved.”

Hawke escorted her father to the front door and kissed him on the cheek. “Be safe.”

“You too, daughter,” Malcolm said, touching the tip of her nose with his finger. “Try not to spill any blood today.”

“I’ll try,” she said with a bright smile. The morning sunshine embraced them both as she opened the door, and she stepped out into the courtyard to watch her father head off to the Keep.

Another day had begun. Now the question was, what to do with it?

 

⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼

 

"Oh Varric," Hawke called in a sing-song voice, as she entered the dwarf's suite at the Hanged Man. "Daddy wants to see you."

Varric was standing to the side of his table, maps sprawled out across its surface. "Whatever it was, I didn't do it," he said without looking up.

Hawke circled the table. "It's about a job," she informed him. She stopped to take a closer look at the parchments he was studying. "What are all these?"

"These, my little Rosebud, are maps into the Deep Roads," Varric said as he pushed one aside and pulled another toward him for a closer look. "I'm trying to find the best way in, with the least amount of travel involved."

"Well, that's easy," Hawke said as she stood behind him, looking over his shoulder. "I'd be happy to show you once we get there."

Varric shook his head. "Hawke, I'm telling you, no matter how many times you ask, the answer is no. The last thing I need is Malcolm Hawke busting down my door should the unthinkable happen."

"Where'd you get these anyway?" Hawke asked, pretending she hadn't heard him say ‘no’ yet again. She noticed the small seal on the corner of each page. "And if I'm not mistaken, that's a Grey Warden seal, is it not?"

He shrugged. "I know people."

His constant refusal to allow her to go on this expedition with him had been the topic of many arguments as of late. Varric had no problem dragging her into all sorts of trouble, but the one thing she really wanted to do, he had been outright refusing. And now he obviously planned to continue on with his secrets - first the mystery mage from last night, and now the source of these maps?

While Varric was engrossed in his research, Hawke cautiously and quietly took two steps away from him. "I believe we're having a communication problem, Varric," she said, taking a quick side-step to the right. "You're keeping an awful lot of secrets lately, and it's making me pout. You know I don't like to pout, it's not good for the skin."

"You'll get over it," he said, still distracted.

"Will I now?" Hawke adeptly retrieved Bianca from where she rested against the wall, and pointed her at Varric.

The dwarf turned to face her when he heard the familiar sound of his crossbow being prepped for firing. For the first time, in all the years she’d known him, Varric opened his mouth, but no words came out. His jaw worked, but there was not one sound.

Hawke grinned. At least now she had his attention.

Neither one turned when Fenris entered the suite. He assessed the current situation quickly: Hawke holding Bianca, aimed at Varric, and the dwarf's expression was the grimmest he'd ever seen. "Clearly I've come at a bad time," Fenris said, hesitating in the doorway.

Varric didn't take his eyes off his weapon, but Hawke turned and offered Fenris a wide smile. "Hello Fenris! Varric and I were just discussing the importance of friendship. Care to weigh in?"

Fenris was relieved when he felt the press of Isabela’s breasts against his back. Though he despised how often the woman threw herself at him, her timely arrival prevented him from having to respond to Hawke’s question.

“Oh Amber,” Isabela said, eying Hawke as she held Bianca. “How many times must I tell you to stop playing with Varric’s woman? Am I not enough for you?” she said with a wink.

“Varric can have his precious Bianca back after he answers my question,” Hawke said. “The maps, dwarf. Where did you get them?”

"My meeting last night," Varric caved, knowing full well he wouldn't get his hands on Bianca until Hawke got her answer. "That mage you were drooling over. Now, give me Bianca before you scratch her."

"I would never," Hawke said softly, relinquishing the weapon. "But I hate how I have to go to such extremes to get you to talk to me lately."

Varric methodically checked over his crossbow for any sign of damage, though he knew there wouldn't be. "All for your own good, Rosebud. The less trouble you're in, the better I sleep at night."

"Well that was anticlimactic," Fenris said as he finally entered the room.

"Tell me about it," Isabela agreed as she followed. "You give in too easily Amber. I would've held out for a name and location."

Hawke shrugged. "I thought you liked it when I gave in," she said to Isabela.

"Of course I do sweet thing," she said, planting a kiss on Hawke's cheek. "Just stopped by to say hello. I'm off to the docks to see if I can't sleep my way toward a new ship. Care to join me? I bet both of us together could get me a ship in no time."

Hawke shook her head, and laughed. “That’s your thing, not mine, as you know very well.” She had a lot in common with Isabela, it was true. Yet in this way they were very different. “One person at a time, thanks very much.”

“I’ll convert you yet,” Isabela said with a hearty laugh, and she exited the room.

“Anyone want to take a walk with me?” Hawke asked after Isabela was gone.

Varric began to roll up the parchments. “These maps are driving me nug-shit crazy. I could use a break.”

Fenris shrugged. “I’ve got nothing better to do than to follow you Amber, you know this.”

Hawke smiled. “My faithful elf. Come on, let’s go shopping!”

 

⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼

 

Hawke was perfectly comfortable in Lowtown, and didn't truly mind the docks, except for the stench of dead fish that always pervaded the place. Hightown was her home, of course, and she spent a lot of time at the Gallows, where her father kept his office. There was really only one place in Kirkwall that Hawke avoided. In fact, Malcolm had forbidden her from ever going there.

Darktown. Once no more than the city’s sewers, it was now home to the worst elements of Kirkwall. Mostly run by the Coterie, the undercity was also crawling with refugees from the Blight, living in the worse kind of conditions. In fact, witnessing their suffering, and being able to do so little to help them, was why Hawke really avoided the place. If it weren't for the fact that she'd heard rumors of a top-notch poison maker who'd recently opened a shop there, she wouldn't be there now.

"Are you sure this is a good idea, Hawke?" Varric asked, adjusting Bianca on his back for the third time. He still hadn’t recovered from the fact that Hawke had actually touched her - held his precious baby in her arms, even.

"Probably not," she replied. "But Isabela's name day is tomorrow, and you know how she loves poisons."

Varric chuckled, determined to regain his good humor. "That she does. I know she's been trying to get her hands on some deathroot toxin, but Martin can't find any."

“Martin talks big, but his inventory is shoddy,” said Hawke. "Besides, that's why we brought Fenris along." She glanced back at the elf and smiled, reassured by the long sword on his back.

"And here I thought it was because my glowing tattoos would light the way," Fenris said dryly.

Hawke laughed. "Well, there is that."

The poison-maker turned out to be an elf named Tomwise, and Hawke was thrilled by his selection of poisons. By the time she left with her purchases, she’d even struck a deal with the merchant to gather some ingredients he needed for his crafting. The extra gold would certainly be useful to bribe Varric into allowing her come on his expedition. It was no secret that his brother Bartrand was having trouble raising the coin. In fact, maybe she should try going straight to Bartrand himself - bypass Varric all together.

Despite Varric’s fear that her parents would be furious should he agree, Hawke was determined to go. More than anything, she wanted to explore more of the world then this little slice of the Free Marches.

Distracted by her thoughts, she almost missed seeing the glimpse of blond hair and feathered pauldrons that slipped around the corner just ahead of them. It took her a moment to realize that it had to be Varric’s mage, but what was he doing in Darktown?

She turned the corner to follow him, and heard Varric say from behind her, “Um, Rosebud, the lift is over there.”

Hawke didn’t even bother to look where the dwarf pointed. Instead, she hurried down another short flight of steps, and in her haste, nearly ran into her prey.

“Wait!’ she called and reached out a hand to steady herself. The mage quickly shrugged off her touch.

"I have nothing to say to you," he said dismissively, and resumed his walking.

"That's a little harsh," Hawke said, trying to keep up. "You don't even know me."

He turned back, and glared at her with obvious distaste. "You are the Peacekeeper’s daughter," he said. "That's all I need to know."

As Hawke stood and watched his retreating back, she felt very confused, and more than a little hurt.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**_The next morning..._ **

 

It was a familiar pain, this dull pounding in his head. It felt as if someone had wrapped his skull in chains, and was pulling them tight in the same cadence as his heartbeat.

Carver let out a low moan.

What came next, he knew very well. It didn’t matter how long he waited, or how carefully he moved, the minute he sat up, he would vomit into the chamber pot Amber invariably left on the floor next to his bed.

He groaned again. Not that it actually helped, the groaning, but it really was all he could manage at the moment.

There was only one cure, and it was served in a mug at the Hanged Man. The trick was getting himself there.

Even though his mother never commented on his drinking, the liquor cabinet at home stayed sealed up tight. Not only with the usual means of lock and key, but Bethany also put some sort of ward on the blasted thing.

Stupid mages.

Why they begrudged him a little fun, Caver couldn’t understand. It wasn’t as if he had anything better to do with his time. His mother’s insistence that he apply to become a Magistrate like Messere Vanard, and Bethany’s not so subtle hints that he should befriend Saemus Dumar, were both ridiculous propositions. Carver would have laughed at either thought, but he knew that would only increase the hammering in his head. He was pretty sure his sister had her own motives for wanting her twin brother to be close to the Viscount’s son.

His gaze fell on the longsword, sitting neglected on its stand in the corner. Unlike Amber, he had not taken well to the training his father had provided. He didn’t have the patience, or apparently the aptitude, for swordplay. It was embarrassing to always fumble about with the blade, and practice had been just another boring chore. It also didn’t help to watch Amber learn to wield her long daggers with such apparent ease. If only he’d shown the same promise...

Bah! To the void with regrets and failures. There were much better distractions awaiting him, as soon as he could get his arse out of the blighted bed.

Lady De Launcet’s young cousin was visiting from Orlais, and Carver hadn't missed the subtle signs of interest she’d shown him at the gathering last week. He thought he had a very good chance of getting under that tight corset of hers to enjoy the silky flesh beneath. A nice stroll in the Viscount’s gardens would be just the thing. There was that secluded spot, deep in the hedge maze, where he’d had such fun with Ser Selbrech’s daughter... What was her name? Petunia? Lilly? Some sort of flower, he was almost sure.

Yes, he’d take the little cousin from Orlais there, today.

Gamlen wouldn’t be stirring until the sun went down, so that gave Carver plenty of time to satisfy his _other_ needs. He sat up and leaned his head over the side of the bed, hoping he didn’t miss the pot this time.

  
⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼

  
“Fenris, are you here?” Hawke called as she entered the mansion, stepping over the rug that was still in a heap near the front door.

Dressed in his casual style of black leggings and white shirt, Fenris descended the stairs to greet her.  “Where else would I be, if not with you?” he asked.

“Oh I don’t know,” Hawke said.  “Ripping out the hearts of small animals and children maybe?”

Fenris sighed, an expression of utter seriousness across his handsome face.  “That was yesterday. Fresh out I’m afraid.”

Hawke giggled and waved a piece of paper at him. “I brought you a present, but you can only have it if you abstain from the slaughtering of innocents. At least for the rest of the week.”

“I’ll consider it,” Fenris said as he followed her into the study.  “Is it not Isabela’s name day?  Shouldn’t you be giving her the poison you purchased?  Preferably through the heart, on the end of your blade?”  

“Ooh, you really don’t like her do you?” Hawke asked as she patted the couch, gesturing for him to sit. “You are correct, and her present will come later, in a box.  For now, you.” She could barely stand her excitement. Nothing delighted her more than making Fenris happy. Considering his past, she had been both surprised and pleased that after the unpleasant way they’d met, he’d turned out to be not only very clever, but just as loyal.    

Hawke settled onto the couch beside him.  “Now I know you can’t read this, so allow me to do it for you.”  She cleared her throat, and then began speaking in the same mocking voice she used whenever mimicking the Viscount.  “I, Marlowe Dumar, Viscount of Kirkwall, do hereby decree that ownership of the manor in Hightown’s Western District, formerly owned by one Tevinter Magister Danarius, has been transferred to one Fenris Revas."

Fenris raised a brow at hearing his new last name. "Revas?"

“You needed a last name,” Hawke stated, as if it were obvious. "And Revas means freedom in elven."

“Danarius didn’t have one,” Fenris pointed out.

Hawke sighed.  “Danarius is dead, so his last name doesn’t matter, but I’m sure he had one when he was alive. Ruining the gift, Fenris!” she said, handing him the parchment.  “The mansion is yours, free and clear.”

Fenris studied the paper he could not read, a thoughtful expression on his face.

“Let’s go have a pint to celebrate,” Hawke suggested, grabbing the elf by the hand and pulling him to his feet.

“Amber,” he said quietly, and his voice was so unlike his usual sarcastic tone, that Hawke immediately met his gaze.

“What is is, Fenris?” she asked.

“I have never properly thanked you,” he told her.

Hawke smiled. “No need, Fenris. Killing your former master was a pleasure, I assure you.”

The hand holding hers squeezed tightly. “Because of you, I am free,” he said, and returned her smile. “I will never forget that, Amber.”

“See that you don’t,” she said, and gave him a saucy wink. “I’ve become very fond of that longsword of yours.”

Fenris chuckled low in his throat, his somber mood suddenly gone. “Of course, my sword,” he said. “The way you find trouble, I have no doubt it will remain quite useful.”

“Some call it trouble,” she quipped, as she led him through the mansion. “I call it fun.”

Even though in some ways she had been teasing him, Hawke relished the warm glow that filled her heart as they walked out into the late afternoon sun.

 

⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼

 

“I can’t for the life of me understand why that mage was so rude,” Hawke told Varric immediately upon entering his suite. After a celebratory pint, she’d left Fenris downstairs playing Serpents with Isabela, much to the elf’s chagrin.

“Well,” hedged Varric. “He was bound to find out about you eventually.”

"About me?” Hawke asked suspiciously. “Wait! You told him who I was!"

"He asked, I answered," replied Varric, attempting to sound casual. "End of story."

Hawke narrowed her gaze on the dwarf, causing him to shift uncomfortably. "I want to hear every word of the conversation," Hawke said, her voice low and insistent.

"Now Rosebud, for once I only told the truth," Varric said in an attempt to placate her.

It didn't work. Hawke rounded the table and stood peering down at him expectantly. "Every single word, Varric," she repeated.

Varric sighed heavily and looked down at his hands resting on the table. "You sure you wouldn't rather have a pint and play a game of Wicked Grace?"

Hawke only glared at him.

"Fair enough," he said, resigned to his fate "It went something like this..."

_"There you are Blondie. I was afraid you'd backed out on me," I said, after Anders finally returned with the maps._

"Wait," Hawke interrupted. "His name is Anders? Or Blondie?"

"Storytelling here," warned Varric.

Hawke frowned, but motioned for him to go on.

_"Sorry, Templars were everywhere, hunting down some apostate by the alienage," he said, as he set the maps on the table._

_"Six maps?" I whistled between my teeth. "Quite the jackpot."_

_Anders seemed to have already lost interest in the maps, because the next thing he said was, "Who was she?"_

_"Who was who?"  I wasn’t really paying him much attention, and had already started unrolling the first parchment._

_"The pretty girl. The one I healed," he said._

_"Oh, that who. Out of your league, Blondie," I told him._

_"Maybe you should let me be the judge of that," he said, and crossed his arms over his chest._

_Truthfully, I wanted to get rid of him so I could study the maps in peace. So, I said, "Her name is Amber Hawke, and her father Malcolm is the most powerful mage in Kirkwall."_

_"A mage!" he exclaimed._

_"Amber's no mage, just her daddy," I told him._

_"How could her father be First Enchanter?" he asked. "No one in the Circle is allowed a family."_

_"Not First Enchanter," I clarified. "Peacekeeper."_

_"Peacekeeper?" he nearly shouted._

_"You know, Peacekeeper. The mage who keeps the crazy people in charge of the city from running amok," I explained._

_"I know what a Peacekeeper does,” said Anders with a frown. "They help the Templars keep mages as slaves."_

_"Now wait a minute," I protested, ready to defend Malcolm, but he didn't give me a chance._

_"Never mind, forget I asked," he said. "You have your maps, now where's my gold?"_

Varric shrugged his shoulders. "I paid him, and he left. End of story."

"He knows nothing about Father," said Hawke. That anyone would think ill of Malcolm rankled her deeply. "Maybe you're right," she admitted. "Maybe I should just forget about him."

"Now you're talking, Rosebud," said Varric. "That road leads to nowhere but trouble."

Hawke walked around the table and lifted the heavy gold chain from Varric's chest. "You know, Varric," she said and smiled coyly. "You could distract me from my thoughts of handsome mages by letting me go on the expedition."

"You're never going to let this go, are you?"

"No," she replied, and dropped the chain heavily back onto his chest. "Not a chance."

 

⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼

 

When Malcolm Hawke entered the Keep, he was met with several nods and smiles of welcome.  Dressed in his signature black robes with the symbol of Kirkwall embroidered in silver thread on its back, he was a familiar sight in the building.  A normal routine for him, he’d visit the Viscount before heading to his office in the Gallows.

“Malcolm,” Viscount Dumar greeted him as the dark-haired mage walked into his office.

“Good morning Marlowe,” Malcolm said as he rested his staff along the wall before sitting across from the viscount.  “How did the dinner party go?”

Dumar shook his head.  “I detest these things, as you well know.  It was a nightmare of bureaucracy and conspiracy. Your absence was duly noted.”

“My apologies,” Malcolm offered.  “But I detest them as much as you.”

Dumar managed a weak grin.  “What have our lives come to?” Dumar asked.  

“Dreadful parties with intolerable food, I’m afraid,” Malcolm responded. Wishing to get business out of the way, he brought up his itinerary for the day.  “I’ll be speaking with Meredith this morning.  I thought I’d offer you the courtesy of a warning.”

The viscount’s expression turned grim.  “Your assistance with this matter is appreciated,” Dumar told him.  “She has grown... intolerable as well.  Monthly Harrowings?  Has she gone mad?”

“Officially,” Malcolm stated, keeping his personal feelings to himself, “I shall say she is being diligent in her duties, and searching for ways to keep the city safe.”

“This coming from a mage?” Dumar said with a raised brow.  “Maddening!”

They continued on with their usual morning banter, indulging in the croissants that were delivered shortly after Malcolm arrived.  It was their casual morning conversations that gave Malcolm all the insight he needed into Dumar’s current mindset, as far as the city’s politics were concerned.  They had been friends for decades, but once both were placed in office, the dynamic of that relationship changed.  Dumar continued to vent to his old friend, and Malcolm would pay attention for any sign of something in which he’d need to intervene.  How the man received the position of Viscount to begin with, Malcolm wasn’t sure.  Dumar was always nervous with any decision he was expected to make, and often it was Malcolm that would steer him in the right direction.

After the pleasantries of the morning were exhausted, Malcolm excused himself and made his way toward the Gallows.  Much like entering the Keep, Malcolm received greetings from both Templars and mages when he entered the courtyard.  A brief nod to Cullen had the Knight-Captain walking in step with Malcolm as they entered the Gallows Halls.

“I trust everything is quiet?” Malcolm asked Cullen, before ascending the stairs to his office.

Cullen glanced upward as if to confirm Meredith was not within earshot.  “She is prepared for your rejection of her proposal,” the knight-captain informed him.  

“Confirmation she has a connection to someone on the council,” Malcolm said.  “Well, we knew that was a possibility.” He leaned against the stairwell for a moment in contemplation.  For several months Meredith had become privy to information discussed behind closed doors at the bi-weekly council meetings, and Cullen’s information only proved Malcolm’s theory. He would pay closer attention on his next visit to Val Royeaux.

“Orders, Sir?” Cullen asked.

“None for now,” Malcolm said, placing a hand on the knight-captain’s shoulder.  “Should you happen to be in Hightown later...”

Cullen nodded, understanding Malcom’s request for him to stop by the Hawke estate after dark.  “Good day Peacekeeper,” Cullen said with a bow, before retreating back to the courtyard.

Malcolm sighed before willing his feet to carry him up the stairs toward Meredith’s office.

 

⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼

 

Hawke retrieved Isabela’s present from where she’d hidden it in Varric’s office, and dragged the dwarf downstairs with her. Her pirate friend’s raucous laughter rang through the bar as she scooped up the gold she’d just won from Fenris.

“One of these days, I will discover where you are hiding the cards,” the elf was saying as they approached.

“Ooo! I hope so big boy,” Isabela replied with a wink. “I look forward to it.”

Fenris attempted a scowl, but Hawke could see the speculative gleam in his eye, and she wondered if at least some of his complaints about Isabela’s forwardness were to mask his own interest. She couldn’t blame him, really. Isabela was a lot of fun, as Hawke knew well herself.

“Amber!” said Isabela cheerfully. “Where’ve you been, love?”

“Giving me a hard time, as usual,” said Varric grumpily, as he took his seat at the table.

Ignoring Varric, Hawke brought the nicely wrapped box of poisons from behind her back and said, “Happy Name Day!”

“A present?” Isabela cooed as she accepted the gift. “Aww, sweet thing, you shouldn’t have.”

“Of course I should have,” Hawke said with a smile. “Go on, open it.”

Isabela produced a dagger from beneath her skirt, and sliced through the pretty blue ribbon that held the box closed. As soon as she lifted the top and saw the glimmering vials of poison inside, Isabela squealed with delight.

“Is this...is it deathroot?” she asked, her dark eyes shining with happiness.

“Indeed it is,” Hawke confirmed, her own smile widening from Isabela’s reaction.

“Amber braved the deadly dangers of Darktown to get that for you,” Varric said as an aside.

“Did she?” Isabela purred, and set the box carefully down on the table. “Somebody needs a thank you.” She shimmied closer to Hawke and added, “A very _special_ thank you.”

Since the first time they’d met, Isabela’s sexual enthusiasm had wormed its way under Hawke’s skin and set all her nerve endings alight. So, when the pirate snaked an arm around Hawke’s waist and pulled her close, she felt the heat begin to pool low in her belly. Isabela’s lips were warm, and oh so very lush as they met Hawke’s. Their bodies were pressed close, breast to breast, and Hawke had just given herself over to the kiss when there was a loud throat-clearing sound from behind her.

Tearing herself away from Isabela’s plump lips, Hawke nearly lost her balance when the now familiar feathered pauldrons were mere inches from where she stood.  Refusing to meet her startled gaze, Anders nodded to Varric.  “Might I have a word?”

Varric did his best to defuse the situation by quickly escorting Anders up to his room.  Hawke slumped into the nearest chair, an embarrassed flush on her cheeks.

“So, the mystery man returns,” Isabela said as she joined Hawke.  

“His name is Anders and he hates me,” Hawke informed the pirate.  “Varric felt it necessary to tell him about my father.”

Isabela patted her on the knee.  “Don’t worry sweet thing, no man can hate any woman after what he just saw. He’ll be begging to bed you in no time.”

“Isabela!” she gasped, but the light-heartedness of her lover lifted her spirits. “If ever there was a kiss to walk in on, that was it.” Hawke took ahold of  Isabel’s hand, and twined their fingers together. “ I’m glad you liked your present.”

“We’ll need to head out soon so I can test them out,” Isabela said, reopening the box with her free hand and fondling the vials. “Anything new and exciting going on?”

Hawke was about to inform her that at present, no there was a lull in the usual adventures Kirkwall had to offer, when Varric called for her from upstairs.  “Amber, we’re going to need you up here.”

Isabela raised a brow as Hawke stood.  “I’m guessing he doesn’t hate you,” she said before swatting Hawke on her rear.  “Chest out Amber, use your assets. “

Hawke chuckled softly as she ran a hand through her hair, hoping it didn’t look as dreadful as it felt. Taking a deep breath, she turned and walked up the stairs, hopeful copper eyes meeting her gaze when she reached the landing.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Hawke had expected Anders to be cold, if not downright antagonistic toward her. Yet the gaze that met hers was not what quite what she had thought it would be. It was a penetrating stare, as if he were attempting to take her measure by his will, alone. If he assumed, however, that his scrutiny would make her uncomfortable, he'd best think again. She was a Hawk, and had put some of the most powerful men in Kirkwall in their place with just a few words.

Varric broke the tense silence, and she tore her gaze away from the mage to look at the dwarf.

"Soooo," he drawled out. "Apparently Blondie here has a little problem." Varric scratched his chin, as he always did when he was nervous. "One that you might be able to help him with, Rosebud."

Hawke shot Anders another glance, but he was looking at the floor now. His blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she wondered what it would look like loose, falling across his eyes and framing his face.

Instead of turning back to Varric, she kept her eyes on the mage as she asked, "What sort of problem?" She'd bet her last silver that any problem this man had was unlikely to be small.

Varric said, "Well, it's like this..."

But Hawke interrupted him. "I think  _Blondie_  should tell me himself."

Varric cleared his throat. "Mhmm, well... yeah, sure. I'll go order a few pints." With that he hurried down the stairs to the bar below.

Anders lifted his eyes to hers, and though there was still unwarranted judgement in them, she saw a trace of fear there, as well. "It's a friend of mine," he said. "I'm afraid he's in trouble."

"No need to be vague," Hawke said, trying to keep her tone reasonable. "I won't bite you."

Anders frowned at that, and Hawke bit her lip to keep from smiling. She thought she might actually like to bite him, despite his surly ways.

He said, in rather clipped tones, "Karl is a mage, a friend of mine from my days at Kinloch Hold. He's in the Gallows now, and we've been corresponding since I arrived in Kirkwall." Anders pressed his fingers to his temple and closed his eyes briefly before he continued. "His letters stopped coming, and I fear the worst."

Being a Peacekeeper's daughter, Hawke knew the names and locations of most of the Circles in Thedas. Kinloch Hold was the Circle Tower in Ferelden, which she knew had gone through a very bad time during the Blight. As much as she wanted to ask him about it, she could see he was truly afraid for his friend, and instead asked. "The worst?"

Anger lit his gaze again, and though Hawke was sure it was a trick of the light, for a moment she'd thought she'd seen a glint of blue in the depths of his brown eyes.

"You, of all people, must know what goes on in the Gallows," he said vehemently. "Look at a Templar cross-eyed, and the next day you wake up Tranquil."

For the first time, Hawke did squirm uneasily. Even though Meredith's plan for monthly Harrowings had been rejected out of hand, she knew that the knight-commander managed to get far more mages approved for the Rite of Tranquility than her father liked. As Peacekeeper, his influence was great, but he did not control every aspect of life in the Circle. It was entirely possible that Anders was right about his friend. Correspondence with an apostate would mean big trouble for any Circle mage.

Hawke swallowed back her resentment of Anders' previously unkind treatment, and with real compassion said, "You're right. Your friend could be in trouble... of the worst kind."

The expression of surprise that crossed his handsome face was nearly comical. One minute he'd been glaring at her with hostility, the next, he looked at her as if she'd just grown two heads. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

Hawke continued. "Apparently you were under the mistaken impression that my father approves of the Templars unsavory tactics for controlling the mages." She took a step toward him, needing him to understand just how much she meant what she was saying. "You couldn't be more wrong. My father is a mage, my sister Bethany was born with magic too. Being made Tranquil is any mage's worst nightmare. Father has repeatedly tried to get the rite banned. And though he's not been successful, neither has he given up the fight."

"I... I don't know what to say," Anders said in nearly a whisper.

Hawke felt some of the weight lift from her chest. That she'd been able to knock him off his high horse felt very satisfying. "You could say you're sorry, and we could start again."

He still looked at her warily, but Hawke could see he was fighting a grin. "I'm sorry?" he said, but it was more of a question.

Hawke sighed. "I suppose that will do for now." She could tell that he was going to be a tough nut to crack, and then was surprised when she suddenly realized that she intended to try to crack him. "I'll tell you now, though, that I won't jeopardize my father's position. If you want my help, we talk to him first."

Another frown, this one tinged with a hint of fear. "Talk to the Peacekeeper?" It was obviously something he hadn't considered.

"What? You thought I'd use my knowledge of the Gallows to help you break your friend out of there?" she asked, and by the look of chagrin that replaced his frown, she knew she'd hit the mark. Hawke laughed. "Although I've been known to cross the line of the law a time or two, why risk that when there's a much better plan available?"

"Yes, a risk," he said. "Have you considered the risk I'd take introducing myself to the Peacekeeper?" He went on in a mocking tone. "Nice to meet you, Ser Peacekeeper. I'm an apostate mage, and I thought you might like to lock me up now." He stood and held out his hands in front of him, as if he were prepared to be chained.

"Don't be ridiculous," Hawke said, and grinned. "My father is a fair man, he'd give you a chance to run away before he called the Templars."

"That's not funny," he said. "You've never been locked up. Believe me, it's no laughing matter."

"Oh, I don't know," Hawke replied. "If we can't laugh at the bad stuff, we lose the one thing that can make it better." She took the last few steps between them, and peered up at him. "We all have our cages, mage, just not all of them have bars and locks made of metal."

"Anders," he said, looking back down at her. "My name is Anders."

"You can call me Amber," she replied. "Come on, my father is at home. We can go there now."

"You're sure about this?" he asked, but he followed her as she turned to leave.

"Positive," she said.

On her way through the bar, she called for Varric, who immediately approached them, a cautious expression on his face. "We're going to the estate," she told him.

"Want me to come with you, Rosebud?" asked the dwarf.

"No need," Hawke replied. "But thanks."

Once they'd left the Hanged Man and were walking toward the long stairway that would take them to Hightown, Anders asked. "Why does Varric call you Rosebud, if your name is Amber?"

Hawke laughed. "Every woman has her little secrets," she replied.

⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼

"Why Cullen, what a delight to see you again," Leandra said as she widened the door to the estate. "Please, do come in."

"Thank you Mistress Hawke," Cullen said as he entered. Carefully, he removed his shield and sword and placed them on the weapons rack near the front door. Cullen then took Leandra's hand in his and gave it a soft kiss. "An armed man should never kiss a lady," he said before releasing her.

Leandra blushed. "So polite, as always," she said with a gracious sigh. "My husband is waiting for you in his study."

With a nod, Leandra led Cullen through the foyer to the living room. Bethany stood at the top of the stairs, her eyes wide with delight. Her hair was immaculate as always, soft curls draping her shoulder over a dark red dress that highlighted her curves most attractively. "Ser Cullen," she said in her warmest, sweetest voice.

"Lady Bethany," Cullen called. "You look stunning, as ever."

Bethany gave him a shy smile as she descended the stairs to greet him. Before reaching the bottom step, however, she tripped over the hem of the long dress, missed the step completely and fell into the knight-captain's outstretched arms. Her cheeks turned nearly the same deep crimson as her dress, while Cullen held her arms to keep her upright.

"Are you alright M'lady?" Cullen asked, gently.

With another shy, nervous smile, Bethany glanced up into his eyes. "Good thing you were here to catch me," she whispered.

Cullen slid his fingers along her arm until he held her hand, which he brought to his lips for a kiss, as he had done with Leandra. Only this time, perhaps he lingered a moment longer. "The pleasure of saving you is all mine," he said with a wink, before releasing her hand.

Bethany and Leandra watched as Cullen continued down the hall toward the study. "Really Bethany," her mother scolded her youngest daughter as soon as he was out of earshot. "Do try to avoid making a spectacle of yourself. Now, run along to the kitchen and prepare tea for your father and his guest."

"I still don't understand why you won't hire servants," Bethany said, her usual complaint about having to perform such a task. "No other noble, or their daughter, would be caught answering the door or preparing tea."

"One does not need to retain servants to properly run their home, or attend to company," Leandra reminded her. "Do as you're told, and don't keep them waiting," she added as she followed Cullen down the hall.

Malcolm stood from behind his desk as the door to his study opened. "Ah Cullen, glad you could make it," he said, shaking the Templar's extended hand.

"As requested," Cullen stated with a warm smile. "I see the day has treated you well."

"If you mean I still have my head intact, then yes I suppose it has," Malcolm said with a chuckle. "That'll be all, thank you Leandra."

"I will leave you two to your business," Leandra said. "Bethany will bring in your tea shortly, do you require anything to eat dear husband? Ser Cullen?"

Cullen politely declined her offer of food, but said, "Tea would be delightful, though, thank you."

Leandra shut the door behind her, leaving the two men alone. Malcolm gestured for Cullen to have a seat near the fireplace, and retrieved a large, black, leather-bound book from his desk. Sitting beside Cullen, he handed him it to him. "The notes from our last few council meetings," he said. "I've made notations as to which meetings Meredith seemed to know about, before I'd even made my report."

Cullen studied the list of names and topics over the last five meetings. "It seems the only person that has been consistently present at all five is this Templar, Samson."

"Yes," Malcolm said. "What do we know about him?"

Cullen thought for a moment. "Ser Emeric may remember more than I do, but I believe Samson was initially sent to Val Royeaux as some sort of punishment, for corresponding with a mage within the Gallows. To be honest, I'm surprised to see that he was elected to the council at all, with such a disciplinary record."

"Unless White Spire was not made aware of the reason for his transfer," Malcolm said. "Do we know who this mage was?"

Cullen shook his head. "I wasn't privy to the specifics, I apologize."

A knock came upon the study door, and Bethany poked her head in a few seconds later. "I have your tea, gentleman," she said pleasantly as she entered, balancing a pot and two cups upon a serving tray.

"Thank you, my darling daughter," Malcolm said as Bethany entered, and set the tray upon the small wooden table between them. He continued on with their conversation, while Bethany poured the tea. "A Templar having relations with a mage is strictly forbidden," he said to Cullen. "I wonder if there are some even now breaking that rule."

The sudden clank of the teapot hitting the rim of a cup startled both men, as Bethany nearly spilt the tea. "Forgive me," she apologized. "Still shaken from my earlier fall, it seems."

Malcolm smiled at his daughter indulgently as she resumed pouring the tea.

"Still prefer it sweetened, Ser Cullen?" she asked.

Cullen tried to divert his eyes from the lush bosom that Bethany displayed as she bent over to fill his cup. "Yes M'lady," he replied. "The sweeter the better."

A coy smile graced her lips as she poured the tea every so slowly into his cup. "Then you will enjoy this, I assure you." She then poured another for Malcolm. "And for you Father, unsweetened with a hint of gin. I promise not to tell Mother."

Malcolm smiled at his daughter. "Thank you, dearest. Now if you'll excuse us..."

With one last glance at the Templar, Bethany exited the room. Once she was gone, Malcolm said to Cullen, "It would be providential if you'd keep your eye on Ser Samson," he said. "Discreetly, of course."

"I will," Cullen agreed. "Rest assured, I'll let you know the minute I notice anything out of the ordinary."

"Of that I have no doubt," Malcolm replied approvingly. "Just be sure that you do not jeopardize yourself. As much as I appreciate our arrangement, I would not bring Meredith's wrath down upon your head."

Cullen laughed. "I don't wish for anything of Meredith's to be brought down upon me. I promise you, Malcolm, I will be careful."

"Good," Malcolm replied. "Now, let's go over these notes one last time before I send you on your way."

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Anders had followed Amber to Hightown, noticing how naturally she kept to the shadows and out of sight. He'd seen others with this same skill, during his time in Ferelden, and added to the sharp daggers she wore on her back, he knew that Amber Hawke was more than just a pampered nobleman's daughter.

"You're awfully quiet," Amber said to him as they rounded the corner of the market.

"What did you want me to say?" he asked. "For all I know, you're taking me straight into the lion's den."

"Trust issues, I see," Amber replied cheerily.

For the life of him, Anders couldn't quite get a handle on her. She seemed such a mixed bag of contradictions.

They were approaching the entrance to a large estate, which sat at the base of the long stairway leading up to the Viscount's Keep. Amber pointed to an ivy-covered entryway. "There it is, home sweet home."

Just as the words left her lips, a light shone onto the ground outside the door.

Amber moved more quickly than Anders would have thought possible. Within seconds, she'd pulled him into a dark recess only yards from the door. She then pushed him against the wall, and covered his mouth with her small hand. The feeling of her soft palm against his lips caused unexpected sensations to flutter through his chest. He'd thought her pretty, yes, but this close, their bodies tightly pressed against each other, the intensity of his reaction was somewhat of a surprise, especially considering why they'd come to her estate in the first place.

Karl.

It wasn't long before he heard a set of purposeful footsteps pass by their hiding place and recede into the night. Amber, instead of removing her hand from his mouth, slid her fingers along his jaw, which only served to increase the stirring inside him. This was not part of the plan, not by a longshot.

"Well, isn't this nice?" Ambers said, and wriggled just the smallest bit.

He had to put a stop to this before it went any further, and he took her by the shoulders and set her away from him. "Let's go," he said in a neutral tone, hoping she wouldn't notice the slightly lower timbre of his voice.

"You're no fun," Amber pouted, but grabbed his hand and led him into the estate.

It wasn't long before he was he was being introduced to the Peacekeeper of Kirkwall, Malcolm Hawke.

Malcolm was a tall man, with a dark shock of hair flecked lightly here and there with a few strands of grey. His black robes fit him immaculately, showing off a physique that a man half his age would have envied. But what struck Anders the most were his eyes. They were the same warm caramel as his daughter's, and held that same spark of mischief, too.

"Father, I'd like you to meet..." Amber began, but Malcolm interrupted her.

"You do not rise to my position without knowing the goings on within the city," he said to Amber. "Did you think the arrival of a Grey Warden apostate would escape me?" Malcolm approached the mage and eyed him speculatively. "Anders, is it?"

"And you said he wouldn't turn me in," Anders said to Amber, and began to back up, ready to bolt.

Malcolm stood before him and placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "I would not," he assured the mage. "I have great respect for your Order, and as you are in the company of my daughter, let's just say I trust her judge of character." He lifted his hand and settled into the chair nearest the fireplace, gesturing for Anders to do the same.

Amber had already made herself comfortable on top of her father's desk, dangling her legs over the side casually, as she'd always done since she was a little girl. Hearing the news that Anders was a Grey Warden was surprising, but she refrained from commenting on it for now. She knew her father would want to set the pace of this unexpected meeting.

"So tell me," Malcolm said, waiting patiently for Anders to begin. "What brings you here?"

Anders glanced nervously at Amber before speaking. That Malcolm would place such unerring trust in his daughter said a lot about their relationship. He sat in the unoccupied chair, fidgeting with his robes. "I have a friend in the Gallows, his name is Karl Thekla. We've been friends a long time, and..." Anders swallowed hard, consumed by worry for his friend.

"A mage then," Malcolm deduced, considering Anders was an apostate. "Go on... and?"

"He was caught, writing letters to me, and I've heard rumors that... It's the rite. They're going to make him Tranquil," Anders said. After his initial misgivings, he was surprised that he was suddenly unburdening himself to someone he'd just met, never mind that the man was Peacekeeper.

"The rite would not be invoked merely for correspondence," Malcolm stated firmly. "Unless of course the content of these letters held something which would be of concern? The Templars are mainly watching for any signs of blood magic, which I'm assuming you're not involved in, given you are with my daughter." He glanced at Amber, who nodded reassuringly.

A look of disgust crossed Anders features. "Neither Karl nor I have ever resorted to blood magic," he said, and the thought then arose in his mind about his own little secret. He wondered briefly what Malcolm's thoughts would be on spirit possession. Surely a mage of his caliber would have come across such a thing before. He pushed those thoughts away and continued. "And no, the letters were simply a way to keep in touch, to... remain close. Little things about our days, and such."

Malcolm sat back in his chair. "I see no reason then, why you would think he's going to be made Tranquil. Where did you hear such rumors?"

"You're kidding, right?" Anders asked in disbelief. "You know Meredith, and how she finds the smallest excuse to enact the rite. As to my sources, I... well, I'd rather not say."

"Given my position Anders, I am unable to comment on Meredith," Malcolm explained, but there again was that mischevious light twinkling in his eye. "And I respect your need to not reveal your sources. However in this case, I do believe they may be mistaken, as I have received no approval notices of the rite to be performed on any mage within the coming weeks."

Anders rose from his chair. "I assure you, ser, my sources are very accurate," he insisted. "Perhaps you play at doubt because you are part of the Gallows' dirty little secrets!"

Amber stood, as well. "Anders!" she exclaimed.

Malcolm waved his hand at his daughter. "It's alright, Amber. Please, Anders, sit down. It is clear you are concerned for your friend, and I will overlook that accusation based on the fact that your emotions have overcome your reason. This must be a difficult topic for you."

Anders stood for a moment longer, his chest rising and falling with his breath. When he finally sat down, he looked tired, defeated almost. "Difficult is an understatement," he said. "I've witnessed far too many good people become nothing more than walking corpses."

"As have I," Malcolm agreed. "If your friend Karl is not a blood mage, then I see no reason for the rite to be performed. You, however, seem certain it will take place - knowledge, I assure you, I do not possess. My question to you, then is this... What would you have me do about it? Although I am Peacekeeper in this city, that does not give me the authority to override such an order, if it has approval from Val Royeaux."

"Has it been approved?" Anders ask, some of the animation returning to his voice. "If you could at least find that out for me. Because my sources also say that Meredith is bypassing the chain of command far too frequently. If Karl is not on the list, perhaps... maybe you can buy him some time..."

"Meredith may attempt to take these matters into her own hands, but I stand in her way more often than she likes to admit," Malcolm said, a smug grin on his face. "Of course, if I were to become involved in preventing a justified rite, that would reflect poorly on me and my position. I believe, if you would think about it, the one who has the power to buy your friend some time here is you."

"I...me?" Anders asked. "You'd have me go into the Gallows and attempt to break him out?" He heard Amber give a little snort, and remembered their exchange at the Hanged Man.

Malcolm shook his head. "My dear boy, let us not consider worst case scenarios first. You are a Grey Warden, are you not? Do you not hold a rite of your own you might invoke?"

The look of confusion on Anders' face rapidly transformed into one of astonishment. "Conscription!" he nearly shouted but just as quickly his frown returned. "But there is no Blight. How would I justify recruiting him into the Wardens?"

"Many Wardens lost their lives during the Blight, in Ostagar as well as Denerim, if I recall the stories correctly. Would the Order not need to replenish its numbers? Enacting the Right of Conscription would not only create a safe haven for your friend, but give Meredith and her Templars reason to conveniently ignore you, should you remain in Kirkwall."

Anders gazed at Malcolm thoughtfully. He'd always assumed everyone in power was wicked and corrupt, but instead he'd found someone in a position of power who was willing to... help. "My standing in the Wardens is not what it should be," he admitted ruefully. "But, perhaps I can kill two birds with one stone, by providing them with my replacement." He grinned with real humor for the first time since entering the estate.

"Do forgive an old man's hearing," Malcolm said as he rose from his chair. "But I believe I missed that last bit. The Wardens seek a mage for recruitment, you say? Fine, I shall check the Gallows for someone appropriate and get back to you."

Anders felt the laughter well up in his chest. "That simple? I've been consumed with fear for days, and suddenly, there's hope." He extended his hand to Malcolm. "Thank you... Peacekeeper."

Malcolm grasped Anders' hand in both of his. "I suppose you should be thanking my daughter, for this conversation would have gone quite differently had you come to me on your own." He released Anders' hand. "I'm sure Amber can see you out. If you'll forgive me, the hour is late, and I must retire for the evening."

Anders nodded his acquiescence. "Amber will know where to reach me, when you have word."

"Will I?" Amber asked, a sly grin curving her lips.

"Goodnight, Anders," Malcolm said, and then kissed Amber on the cheek. "Don't stay up too late, my dear," he warned her, assuming that the two may wish to continue their conversation privately. He closed the door to the study upon his exit.

Anders wasn't entirely comfortable with the way Amber was looking at him. Or the way she was walking toward him, very purposefully. He attempted to put a look of disinterest on his face, but was afraid that she was remembering his earlier reaction to her nearness.

In an attempt to dissuade her advances, he said, "Your father, is not what I expected."

"No, I'm sure he isn't," Amber said, slowing her pace. "But then again, you turned out to be quite the surprise yourself."

"How so?" he asked, noticing the inches between them disappearing.

"Well, at first I thought you were handsome and mysterious," she said, bringing a slender finger to her lips, as she considered him. "Then I thought you were rude and insufferable, after we met in Darktown. But after tonight, I'm curious about you - your passion for your friend, your status as a Grey Warden." She was no longer looking him in the eye, but was fixated on his mouth. "There's also what happened outside. I do believe we were about this close," Amber reminded him, and brought her hand to his face.

From what he'd seen of that kiss with the dark-haired woman at the Hanged Man, Amber wasn't the serious type when it came to romance. At least, that's what he tried to tell himself - that he wasn't interested in a dalliance, that his heart was no plaything. Yet, that same heart began to beat rapidly in his chest from her nearness, and it was telling a him a far different story. He was caught, transfixed, a war waging between his body and his mind, and he had no idea what to do.

A voice saved him. From the other side of the door, a woman's voice called, "Ambrosia? Are you in there?"

Amber pulled away from him and took a few steps back, putting distance between them as the doorknob turned.

The door flew open and an attractive grey-haired woman poked her head in. "There you are, Ambrosia. I've been looking all over for you. Bethany needs help with her coiffure." The woman, obviously Amber's mother, glanced at him dismissively. "You know only you can tame that wild mess on her head after she's washed it."

"Ambrosia?" Anders mouthed, and could barely contain his laughter.

"I'll be there in a minute, Mother," Amber replied, then mouthed backed to Anders, "Shut up."

After Leandra left, Anders couldn't help but ask, "Just how many names do you have?"

Her mouth bowed into that perfect little pout he'd noticed she often favored. "One. Amber," she said distinctly, and led him to the front door. "And don't you forget it." She gave his back a little push that sent him staggering out into the night, before she shut the door firmly behind him.

As Anders made his way back to Darktown, he thought that was exactly the problem. Forget her? Much to his consternation, he couldn't seem to get Amber out of his head.


	5. Chapter 5

A soothing warmth radiated through his neck as Orsino sent trickles of magic to his tightened muscles. For most of the evening he'd sat behind his desk, working on his letter writing campaign, in the hopes of brightening his future. Starkhaven, Montsimmard, Hossberg, even the College of Magi in Cumberland sounded promising.

The message to First Enchanter Luidweg of Ansburg had been his longest; the overwhelming desire to return home causing an ache in his heart. He had not seen his sisters for decades, nor visited the graves of his parents since their passing. It would be a dream come true should they accept his transfer. Any of the other Circles scattered across Thedas would be a welcomed change from Kirkwall. He hated it here, he realized, as he looked up to see the constant reminder of his failure lingering in the doorway to his office.

"Orsino," Malcolm said, eyes glancing over the somewhat disheveled man. "Have you been here all night again?"

What did he care, Orsino wondered? Not every mage had the luxury of leaving the Gallows and going home to their wife and children. In fact, only one had that privilege, and that Malcolm had received the position of Peacekeeper over Orsino left a bitter taste in the old elf's mouth. That position should have been rightly his! He’d been in Kirkwall since he was just a young boy, after all. The youngest First Enchanter in Thedas, and now nearly the oldest.

"It seems my work is never done," Orsino replied as Malcolm entered his office, and took a seat across from him. "I admit, I'll probably retire until this afternoon, once our business is concluded of course."

Malcolm nodded. "You look completely exhausted. The morning off from your duties should help."

"Yes," Orsino agreed, though he despised hearing it from the younger mage. "What is it I can do for you, Peacekeeper?" He couldn’t seem to help that he’d pronounced Malcolm’s title with a hint of derision.

Malcolm took no notice, and leaned forward in his chair, keeping his voice low as he spoke.  "I've been asked to inquire about the welfare of one of your mages, Karl Thekla. There's a rumor he has been... detained."

Orsino brought a hand to his temple, his long fingers massaging the throbbing ache that began to form there. "Perhaps you should be across the hall, speaking with the knight-commander," Orsino replied. "She claims to have intercepted correspondence between Karl and someone from the outside, which cast the Templars in a very poor light. Enchanter Thekla is currently in the dungeons, awaiting whatever punishment Meredith sees fit."

"Then I suppose Meredith is going to have a disappointing morning," Malcolm said as he stood.  "Get some rest, Orsino," he said as he walked toward the exit of Orsino's office. "Oh, and next time one of your mages is locked up? I would appreciate hearing it from you, and not my daughter."

Orsino was thankful Malcolm had shut the door before he could see the hate filling the First Enchanter's eyes. His condescending tone will be his undoing one of these days, Orsino thought, as he retrieved a blank parchment from his drawer. And just how did Malcolm’s daughter find out about Karl? It couldn’t have been Bethany, the girl only left her home for parties and tea. That other one, Ambrosia, was known to linger in Lowtown, and must have a connection somewhere.  

It seemed Orsino’s morning of writing letters was not yet complete, as he decided a note to his old friend Quentin would help ease his troubled mind.

⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼

Isabela was no stranger to Darktown, so finding the location of the handsome apostate mage barely caused her any effort at all. The lit lanterns framing the battered doors were themselves a dead giveaway, shining brightly against the slime infested walls. If he were looking for a beacon to guide the undercity's worst to him, he’d found it. The huddles of sick and injured people waiting outside the renowned healer's clinic surprised her, and though she hated to admit it, humbled her. Hawke was always ready with a healing potion, or had Bethany waiting in the wings should her friends need assistance. These people were made to wait, wallowing in their pain, until the one man who could help them had the time and mana to ease their suffering.

Shaking her head to clear it of such intrusive thoughts, Isabela kept a hand on her hidden dagger as she moved through the crowd. Sick or not, they were still poor, and would slit her throat for her coin without a second thought. Avoiding eye contact helped, as she focused on the doors to the clinic. She pushed through one swiftly, and slipped inside before closing it upon the heated, accusatory words of the crowd. They probably assumed she was cutting some imaginary line, but healing was not the purpose of her visit.

Anders appeared to be deep in concentration, his hands emitting an silvery-white glow as they moved along a woman's leg. Isabela leaned against the front wall as she watched a gaping wound begin to close, skin stitching together before her eyes. It was fascinating to watch the man work, the way his fingers danced along the woman's flesh. His actions reminded her of a mage she’d once met back in Ferelden, and she briefly wondered whatever had become of that man. The things he could do with his hands...

"You," a man gruffly called in her direction, startling Isabela out of her memory.  "How'd you get in here?"

Isabela pushed off the wall and moved toward the table where the injured woman lay moaning.  "I walked, much like anyone else, I imagine," she said, taking a closer look at the woman's leg.  Looking up at Anders, she added, "nice work."

"It's alright, Deryn," Anders said to the assistant, who had censured Isabela.  "Please escort Nia home, and tell the others I need a minute alone to recuperate."

"Of course," Deryn nodded, though he scowled deeply at Isabela. Nia, the woman Anders had healed, gave her thanks as Deryn helped her from the table and led her out the clinic doors.

Anders busied himself by washing his hands in a small basin, ignoring the sultry look the pirate was giving him once they were finally alone. "You're Amber's girlfriend, right?" he said, hoping his tone came off as casually as he had intended.

Isabela moved around the perimeter of the small clinic, perusing the shelves of potions and poultices, herbs and books. "The name's Isabela," she said, reaching for a leaf, which she brought to her nose. "Formerly Captain Isabela, though it’s only a temporary setback."  She wrinkled her nose as she inhaled the pungent scent of elfroot.  "And no, I wouldn't say girlfriend, exactly."

Anders wiped his hands on a towel before placing the cloth beside the basin. Folding his arms across his chest, he turned to watch Isabela wander the room. "You kiss all your friends like that, do you?" he asked, referring to the steaming kiss he had witnessed at the Hanged Man.

Isabela shrugged. "Maybe. Why, do you want to be friends?"

Anders involuntarily took a step back as an unwanted picture of kissing Isabela formed in his mind. "I'll pass, but thank you,” he replied sardonically. “Did Amber send you? Do you bring news?" He had hoped to hear from her today regarding Karl, nearly desperate to know if Malcolm was able to find out if the mage was alright.

"Amber doesn't know I'm here," Isabela admitted. "And I'd prefer it remain that way."

A sigh of disappointment escaped him before he settled onto a battered, wooden crate. This waiting was torturing him, causing him to feel helpless. He was filled with self-loathing, knowing that he remained a free man, while Karl was stuck in the Gallows enduring who knew what manner of torture. Even though he was labeled an apostate, Anders had the ability to move about the city, while Karl was more than likely trapped within the dungeons at the mercy of sadistic Templar jailers.

Anders had kept himself busy by assisting the local Ferelden refugees, but still his thoughts drifted to Karl throughout the day, as well as to the woman who had surprisingly offered to help him. He hated to admit it, but he was curious why Isabela had paid him a visit.  "If Amber didn't send you, then may I ask, why are you here?"

She pulled a sharp little knife from her belt, and began to casually clean her fingernails. "While Amber is not mine to claim," Isabela said, "she is, I suppose, special to me. So I bring a word of advice, sweet thing," she continued, and crossed the distance between them, the small dagger held loosely in her hand.  "Be very, very careful in your future behavior toward my friend. Another incident like what happened here in Darktown a few days ago, and you'll get to see my not-so-nice side."

The audacity of her threat nearly caused Anders to lose control, though with some effort, he kept his anger in check. He stared up at her in disbelief. "You'd walk into my clinic, a sanctum of healing and salvation, and threaten me?"

"Not a threat darling, a promise," Isabela stated. "Amber is a sweet girl, too much so for her own good, sometimes. Her friends look out for her, not to mention her family. Maker knows what she sees in you, but the girl is obviously smitten.” She peered down at him and smiled sweetly. “Tread carefully."

Anders rose from the crate, giving him the advantage of looking down at her. He wasn't sure why, but hearing that Amber may be attracted to him caused his insides to warm. He had to admit he’d suspected as much, the way she’d pressed herself against him the prior evening, and again in her father's study. But in truth, he’d taken her as nothing more than a common flirt, especially after the way he had witnessed the two women kissing. "Your threats are unnecessary," he tried. "I have no interest in her."

Isabela's laugh echoed loudly within the small room.  "Oh please, I saw the way you looked at her as you healed that cut on her arm. You are as smitten as she is.” The rogue smiled slyly. “Not that I blame you; the woman is beautiful, and very satisfying behind closed doors, if you catch my drift."

He shifted uncomfortably from his body’s reaction to the images Isabela's words brought to mind. "I barely know her," Anders said, not exactly denying  Isabela's accusation.

"That would never stop me," Isabela admitted. "But, you will get to know her. And when you do, you will no doubt want to pursue her. When that time comes, remember our little chat, alright?"

Anders couldn't help but stare as the sultry pirate sashayed her way out of his clinic, closing the door with her hip, before disappearing from view. He wasn't quite sure what had just taken place; did the woman just warn him not to get involved with Amber? Or give him her permission?

It was enough to make his head spin, so he pushed the thought aside for now, and prepared to assist the next patient. Yet throughout the rest of that busy, exhausting day, thoughts of Amber Hawke sneakily entered his mind.

⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼

“Thanks for coming with me, Varric,” Hawke said as they climbed the never-ending stone stairway which led to the Keep. It seemed in Kirkwall you were always going up or down flights of steps.

“No problem, Hawke,” he replied. “I figured I owed you one after landing you in that mess with Blondie.”

Hearing Varric mention Anders conjured up the feeling of their bodies pressed tightly against each other, as they'd hid from Cullen the previous night. Hawke gave an involuntary shiver.

“You cold, Rosebud?” asked Varric. “I’d offer you my jacket, but I don’t think it would fit.”

Thankfully, the new image wearing a dwarven jacket dispelled the first one, and Hawke laughed. “I’m fine Varric,” she said. “Goose walked over my grave, I suppose.”

Varric chuckled. “What does that mean, exactly? I’ve never understood how a waterfowl can walk over a grave that doesn’t exist yet.”

“I have no idea,” Hawke said, still laughing. The guards that stood sentry at the wide double doors glared at them, as if being amused was somehow breaking the law. “Good afternoon gentlemen. Fine weather we’re having, isn’t it?”

“Good day, milady,” the guard said stiffly.

“You only get away with that because you’re daddy is Peacekeeper,” Varric muttered in an aside, as they passed through the doors.

Today they were having lunch with Aveline and her husband, Ser Wesley, who was the only married Templar Hawke had ever heard of. Because of his unusual status, when Wesley’s shift was over at the Gallows, he was allowed to return across the bay to the small apartment he and Aveline kept, just down the hall from the barracks. Hawke hadn’t known Aveline long enough to feel comfortable asking her how it was that she’d wed a Templar, and she didn't know Wesley at all. Today, she hoped that would change.

She’d considered inviting Bethany or Carver to accompany her, but had decided that she’d really rather have a pleasant afternoon, than put up with her sister’s snobbishness, or be embarrassed by how much Carver drank. No, Varric was a much better choice, because it guaranteed the afternoon would not be dull, at least.

When Aveline opened the door to greet them, Hawke was struck again by just how red the guardswoman’s hair was. The sprinkling of freckles across her nose would have been powered into nonexistence by any normal Orlesian lady. Aveline, quite obviously, did not care about fashion. In fact, even though she was not wearing her usual city guard armor today, the sleeveless chained tunic and leather greaves she wore were not in any way feminine. Hawke became even more curious as to just what sort of person Aveline was, behind the closed doors of her apartment.

“Hawke, I’m glad you could come,” Aveline said as she ushered them into the room. “Varric,” she added as if in an afterthought.

“Good to see you, Aveline,” Hawke replied. “It was kind of you to invite us.”

Aveline eyed the dwarf, as if in a silent statement that she hadn’t really invited him, but put a strained smile on her face as she led them into the sitting room. “Have a seat,” she said, and gestured to a stiff-back bench set close to the fireplace. “Wesley will join us soon, he’s just finishing up in the kitchen.”

So, Wesley was the cook in the family. How very interesting.

It was pretty apparent that Aveline was far from comfortable as she took her own seat, and very politely asked, “You’re family is well, I hope?”

Hawke nearly snorted. “If you mean is Carver out drunk somewhere, the answer is probably yes.” She smiled broadly at the guardswoman. “But no worries, he’s on his own. If he ends up in the dungeons, so be it.”

“It might do him good,” said Aveline seriously. “Bit of a tit, your brother.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” agreed Hawke, but still felt a vague uneasiness that Aveline would so blithely criticize Carver.

Sensing the tension, Varric rubbed his hands together and asked, “So, what’s on the menu?”

Wesley entered the room then, wiping his hands on a towel as he approached. He was smiling, but there was a pinched look about his eyes that let Hawke know she wasn’t imagining the tension in the small room.

“Wesley Vallen,” he said, holding out his now clean hand for Hawke to take. For some reason Hawke had expected him to be wearing his full Templar regalia, but he was dressed in a loose cotton shirt and a rather ratty looking pair of brown pants.

Hawke stood and shook his hand. “Amber Hawke,” she said, then gestured toward the dwarf. “And my friend, Varric Tethras.”

“Good to meet you both,” he said, and shook Varric’s hand, as well. The Templar, however, avoided any further pleasantries and simply said, “Lunch is served if you would follow me.”

Hawke glanced at Varric, who simply shrugged his shoulders. They followed Aveline and Wesley into a cramped dining room, which was almost entirely filled by a round table laden with various steaming dishes. At least the food did smell wonderful.

An awkward silence prevailed as the platters and bowls were passed around, and plates filled with tempting dishes. Despite the feast set before them, Hawke was beginning to regret accepting Aveline’s invitation because of the underlying tension that pervaded the small gathering. She took a deep breath, however, preparing to make the best of it.

Hawke knew that Aveline and Wesley had barely escaped the Blight in Ferelden with their lives, and had arrived in Kirkwall only the year before. If not for Wesley’s Templar status, they would have been shuffled into the undercity with the rest of the refugees, she was sure. Hawke was dying to ask how a Templar came to be married, but decided on a safer topic of conversation, or so she thought.

“So, how are things at the Gallows, Ser Wesley?” she asked, a placid smile on her face.

The Templar glanced at her sharply and said, “I’m sure you’d know the answer to that better than me.”

“Wesley,” Aveline warned in a low tone.

Wesley frowned at his wife, before he addressed Hawke again. “Forgive me, serah. The Gallows is filled with tension these days. Meredith is squeezing the Templars as if we’re lemons and she’s attempting to make juice.”

Before Hawke could answer, Aveline cut in. “Ser Cullen doesn’t seem to have a problem handling Meredith,” she said snidely.

Hawke saw Varric’s eyes light up as the tension mounted. She knew he was already spinning a story in his head. “Goosed in the Gallows,” or something, she thought with an inner laugh. Hawke tried to say something diplomatic, but Wesley spoke first.

He set down his knife with a loud clattering and said, “That woman rides me from dawn until dusk. Always hounding me for information about the Viscount’s office, as if having a wife in the guard grants me access to Dumar, himself.”

“Wesley,” Aveline bit out. “Mind your tongue.”

Hawke watched in fascination as several expressions worked their way across Wesley’s face. Anger, humiliation, frustration. The man was certainly expressive - he should have been an actor, she thought to herself, and bit back the smile that tried to form on her face.

Finally, she managed to get a word in as Aveline and Wesley silently fumed at each other. “I’ve heard that there’s been a new training regimen enacted,” she said in an attempt to defuse the situation. “Trips out to the Wounded Coast, wasn’t it?”

Sullenly, Wesley replied, “True. I’m scheduled to leave for several days myself, next week.”

Aveline rolled her eyes, as if next week couldn’t happen soon enough. Hawke began to eat faster, hoping to end this visit quickly, and was grateful when Varric began to regale them with a story about an Antivan assassin named Zevran, who’d helped the Hero of Ferelden end the Blight. Where he came up with these stories, Hawke could never figure out. She doubted such an elf ever existed, to be honest.

They didn’t linger after the meal, Hawke claiming another engagement she must attend.

On their way back down the steps to Hightown, Varric looked up at her with a grimace. “You know I love you, Rosebud, but I’m never doing that again.”

Hawke laughed. “That makes two of us.”

⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼

“Cullen!” Bethany squealed as he chased her around the room. “You’ll ruin my gown!”

Cullen laughed and finally caught her around the waist, his hand lifting to her bosom. He tugged hard at the silk cloth there, sending buttons scattering across the bed. “I told you what would happen if I found you here with your clothes still on,” he said with a wicked grin. His mouth captured hers possessively as his hand slipped over her breast and began to explore her soft flesh.

All fight went out of Bethany as Cullen worked his own brand of magic on her. She opened for him, and he immediately plunged his tongue into her mouth, reclaiming his territory. These afternoon trysts in their “special” apartment at the Blooming Rose were Bethany’s little rebellion, one she thought was a well-kept secret. They made her feel wicked and wanton, in a way that she found delicious, perhaps all the more so because she knew her proper mother would be horrified.

When the handsome young Templar recruit had arrived in Kirkwall, wanting to work with the famous Malcolm Hawke, Bethany had been almost immediately overwhelmed with desire for him. He’d arrived not long before the Blight had hit Ferelden, and he’d often told her of the horror stories that came to him in letters, from his old friends at Kinloch Hold.

It was scandalous really. Bethany had only been seventeen the first time she’d thrown herself at Cullen, behind the Reinhardt’s estate in a far corner of the garden. To his honor, he had tried to resist her at first. Yet what man could deny a young maiden stripping out of her clothes on a moonlit summer night?

Not Ser Cullen, she thought with a wry smile.  It had been delicious, and from the very first, he’d brought her body to blissful heights more wonderful than any young girl’s dreams.

Another devious little thought arose in her mind, and she began to gather her mana for a spell - a force spell that would push her amorous lover away from her, thus beginning the cat and mouse chase all over again. She loved the pursuit almost as much as she loved being caught.

Cullen pinched her nipple, causing her to gasp. “Stop it, little mageling,” he said against her mouth. “I feel your power building.”

Bethany didn’t stop, and continued to let her mana increase. She was almost ready to release it, when she felt the draining power of a smite leach her power from her. If Cullen hadn’t held her in his arms so tightly, she would have fallen to her knees.

“No fair,” she whispered, barely able to form the words.

“All’s fair in love and war, didn’t you know?” he murmured, as he lifted her into his arms and fell with her onto the bed. His hand traveled along her thigh, until it reached the thin strip of her panties, and swiftly pulled them off of her. He found her ready for him, sweet moisture met his insistent fingers, and her soft moan only encouraged him more.

“What do you want?” he asked as he removed the ties to his smalls and positioned himself between her legs.

“You,” she whimpered. “I want you. All of you.”

“As you wish,” he said as he pushed into her, filling her completely with one, powerful thrust.

Bethany groaned and lifted her bottom from the bed, granting him greater access, allowing him an ease of movement as he began to set a steady, pounding rhythm.

As the ecstasy overtook her, as it always did with her Templar, she thought that love was highly overrated. Sex was ever so much better.

⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼

Malcolm hesitated at the large door, gathering his strength to face what waited for him on the other side. It was a ritual he had grown accustomed to; deep, cleansing breaths, ridding his mind of all thoughts before entering the room. Piercing crystal blue eyes gazed at him from beneath soft blond hair, as she lifted her head to see who had come into her office.

Meredith stood as he closed the door.  "Peacekeeper," she addressed him formally.  

"Knight-Commander," Malcolm replied, sliding the bolt on the door into its locked position before walking toward her. "I believe there are a few matters we must discuss."

The tall woman walked around her desk to stand in front of it, a frown forming on her face.  "Directly to the point as always," Meredith said. "What grandiose misdeeds have I committed now? Restricted the nightly meal of the mages? Forbidden them to take baths for weeks? Or perhaps I've caged a few because of suspicious activity?"

"All of the above," Malcolm said without hesitation. "Were you in my position, what sort of punishment would you enact for such crimes?"

"None," Meredith replied, "as they are a part of my duty to this city, to keep it safe from the destruction of mages."

Malcolm nodded. "And we all know how destructive we mages can be," he added, moving closer to her.

"Very destructive," she agreed.  "If I had my way, none of you would ever see the light of day."

"How fortunate for me that you never get your way," Malcolm said, before swiftly closing the remaining gap between them. He captured her cheeks in his hands and pressed his lips to hers, forcefully demanding entrance.

Meredith immediately allowed the intrusion, wrapping her arms around his neck. For several moments they channeled their energy into the passionate kiss before breaking apart. "Maker, I have missed you," Meredith said as she pulled him into her strong embrace.

**  
**"And I, you," Malcolm replied, before pushing her back onto her desk. "Allow me to show you just how much."


	6. Chapter 6

"You're coming with me, Blondie," said Varric as he grabbed Anders by the arm and started to drag him from the clinic.

"But wait, where are we going?" He was half afraid Varric was dragging him off to the Gallows.

"You'll see," replied Varric. "And relax, there are no Templars involved in this little expedition.”

"I never agreed..." Anders said as he attempted to resist the vice like grip the dwarf had on his arm.

"I beg to differ," Varric replied cheerfully, as if they were out for an afternoon stroll. "When Rosebud needs us, we come running. That's what you do when you're her friend."

"I'm her friend?" Ander asked. He gave up the struggle and began keeping pace with the dwarf.

"You went to her for help, Blondie," Varric replied. "That makes you her friend."

"Why do you call her Rosebud, anyway?" Anders asked, not wanting to pursue the subject any further.

"Oh no," Varric said with a chuckle. "Not going there."

Just outside the gates, he saw Hawke standing, talking to the strange, tattooed elf he’d noticed at the Hanged Man the other night. Hard to miss someone who looked like that, but Anders hadn’t known he was another of Hawke’s ‘friends.' The woman had a very odd assortment of acquaintances.

“I thought my father hired you for this job, Varric,” Hawke said as they drew near.

“I knew you wouldn’t want to miss out on the fun, “Varric replied happily.

Hawke smirked, and it was quite impressive.

She had her long, dark hair pulled tightly into a ponytail at the crown of her head, and her cheeks were flushed from the warming sun. Isabela was right, she was beautiful, and his mind strayed to what else Isabela had said about Hawke ‘behind closed doors.' Anders felt his own cheeks begin to burn. It wasn’t as if he’d never been with a woman, he had - plenty of them during his days in Denerim. But after he’d met Karl, he thought perhaps his woman-chasing days were over. He’d found something with his fellow mage he’d never felt before; caring, warmth, affection.

Now, Anders’ best hope for Karl was to get him out of Kirkwall alive, and with his mind intact. His heart filled with sadness that they would be parted, perhaps forever. It was then that Anders felt the familiar stirring inside, reacting to his emotional state, and he immediately refocused on his companions.

The elf was staring at him quite intently. "Varric’s brought the feathered apostate with him," he remarked.

Hawke suppressed a grin, and in a fair imitation of the elf's deep baritone said, "Why yes, so he has."

"Not very impressive," the elf continued, and glanced down at Hawke. "You could certainly do better."

Anders scowled at the elf, unsure if he was referring to himself, or Hawke's imitation.  Dismissing the thought for now, he turned to Hawke. “What’s this about?” he asked, still unsure if this were some sort of trick.

She looked at him as if judging whether the elf’s statement were true or not. A long, slow perusal from toe to head. “You’ll do,” she told him, before getting down to business. “Father hired Varric to deliver a message to the Dalish camped at Sundermount.” She gestured to herself and the elf. “We’re backup. Anders meet Fenris. Fenris, this is Anders.”

The elf gave him a slight nod, which he barely returned. “Why didn’t your father just send you?” Anders asked, still eying Fenris suspiciously.

Hawke laughed. “You’re kidding right?”

Varric interrupted before he could answer. “We need to get moving, Rosebud, if we’re going to make it back before dark.”

Hawke nodded, and they set off toward the coast.

It wasn’t long before Anders understood just why Varric needed backup. He hadn’t been out to the Wounded Coast on his own, much less Sundermount, thinking it was better to keep a low profile in Darktown. So when a group of bandits attempted to ambush them, he was glad he never had.  

It was obvious the three of them had fought together before, the way that Hawke and Fenris moved into the group, while Varric scurried uphill and began to use his crossbow to great effect. Anders had seen some combat himself, during his time with the Wardens, and he followed Varric, before turning to target individual bandits with his famous lightning spell. He watched in satisfaction as a bolt flew from his staff and forked over three of their attackers, sending them to the ground in a flurry of sparks. It was easy to avoid hitting the elf, the way his tattoos glowed, but he had to take special care to avoid Hawke. She was all over the place - appearing and disappearing faster than he could keep track of.

His heart lurched when Hawke took a particularly nasty stab in her right shoulder, and he released healing energy from his staff before he'd realized what he had done. The tight grin she gave him before she tumbled behind her attacker and put her blade threw his neck, caused another internal flutter, and this time he could feel an unwanted, stronger stirring there, too. The last thing he needed was to lose control of himself, so he did his best to return his focus to the battle, though his aim was not quite what it had been.

It was over rather quickly, and soon Varric and Hawke were looting the corpses while Fenris kept watch for strays.

“Poor pickings,” grumbled Varric as they resumed their journey to Sundermount.

Hawke ignored the dwarf’s grousing, and instead asked, “So, what’s in the letter, Varric?”

“Now Rosebud, why would you ask me a question like that?” Varric objected. “It’s a private message to the Keeper of the Dalish!”

Hawke laughed, and behind them Anders heard Fenris snort.

“Yeah? So what does it say?” she asked again through her laughter.

Varric looked from side to side, ridiculously checking to make sure they were not overheard. The only thing Anders could see were some white gulls skimming the surface of the sea, and a lot of shrubs and rocks.

Hawke led them down a path that forked to the right, when Varric finally replied.

“Apparently,” he explained, “we’re delivering some bad news to the Dalish Keeper. A few nights ago, one of their elves, a mage with those weird tattoos, was captured and killed in the alienage.”

Suddenly Anders remembered the Templar ruckus the other night, the one that had made him late to his meeting with Varric. “They nearly caught me, as well,” he offered, remembering his narrow escape.

Hawke glanced at him, a worried frown creasing her brow, but Varric had continued speaking.

“Glad they didn’t, Blondie,” he said. “From what the letter says, the reason they killed her, instead of just capturing her, was because she used blood magic.” Varric shook his head. “According to the Templars, they lost one of their best men before they took her down.”

Hawke shivered. She’d never been exposed to blood magic, but had heard enough lectures from her father on the subject to hope that she never did. “So why are we delivering the news, instead of a Templar?”

Varric chuckled. “Think about it Rosebud. A Templar walking into a Dalish camp?”

Hawke smiled ruefully. “Oh, right.”

“Anyway, it’s even more complicated than just a dead blood mage. They found some weird magical mirror at her place.” He fished for the piece of parchment and scanned the document before saying, “Something called an eluvian, very ancient, supposedly. Your father thinks the artifact should be destroyed, but wants to offer it back to the Dalish as a symbol of respect.”

“Yes, that would be my father, ever the Peacekeeper,” Hawke said.

“And from the way the letter ends,” he said as he put the letter away,  “the Peacekeeper also wants a meeting, to discuss a few things with the Keeper, including establishing their camp at Sundermount as a more permanent home.”

“Really?” Anders couldn’t help his shocked expression. He never heard of any human, other than the Warden, who cared a fig for what happened to the elves.

Before anyone could respond, however, they rounded a huge boulder, and ahead of them stood a narrow entrance to a large clearing at the foot of the mountain. Anders could see brightly colored aravel sails, swaying in the breeze, and two well-armed elves guarding the way in.

“Halt human,” said the male elf as soon as they approached.

“Two humans, a dwarf and an elf, if you care about accuracy,” Varric said, unperturbed by their less-than friendly greeting. “I have a message from the Peacekeeper of Kirkwall, for Keeper Marathari,” he said, producing the document.

The female elven warrior took the parchment Varric held out to her and scanned it briefly. “Very well,” she said. “The Keeper will see you, but mind your step.”

“We’ll be watching,” added the other elf.

Anders had never been inside a Dalish camp before, and was surprised by the homey feel of it, even in this barren place. Groups of elves were scattered about the clearing, some talking among themselves, others engaged in various tasks of which he had no understanding. He felt a certain, brief, stirring inside him. Despite that they were outcasts from society, there was such a sense of freedom in this place.

His thoughts were cast aside as their group approached the elf who most certainly was the Keeper. She was older than the rest, her nearly white hair piled on top of her head in a loose bun. Her sparkling green eyes were keen, unwavering, and seemed to take each of their measures with merely a glance. He also noticed the long, gnarled staff on her back. The Keeper was a mage.

The elf nodded to them. “Greetings, travelers. I am Keeper Marathari, the leader of these Dalish.”

Varric approached the Keeper and bowed slightly. “Varric Tethras, at your service,” he said. “These are my companions, Amber Hawke, Fenris and Anders.” He gestured to each of them.

“You are welcome here,” said the Keeper. “Tell me, what brings you to us, so far from Kirkwall?”

Varric nudged Hawke in her ribs, and she looked down at him incredulously, shaking her head very discreetly.

“Amber is the daughter of the Peacekeeper, and brings tidings, and this letter to you from her father,” said Varric, forcing Hawke into the role of spokesperson, as he handed the parchment to Marathari.

The Keeper barely looked at the letter in her hand before turning her inquiring eyes to Hawke, who shot the dwarf an annoyed glance before turning to the Keeper with a strained smile. “I’m afraid the tidings are of a sad nature,” she said gently. “One of your clan has lost her life in a battle with the Templars. She was wearing this.”

Marathari sucked in a quick breath as she examined the etched, ironbark ring Hawke had handed to her. The Keeper’s voice was filled with sorrow as she said only, “Merrill. ”

“Merrill,” repeated Hawke softly, as she bowed her head.  “I’m very sorry for your loss, Keeper Marathari.”

Anders couldn’t help but be impressed by the way Hawke was handling the situation. She’d definitely inherited some of her father’s diplomatic ways. He watched as the Keeper bowed her head slightly, deflated from the news. In a small clan like this, the loss of one person would be a terrible blow, he imagined.

Finally, the Keeper looked up at them, and though her eyes held a deep sorrow, they contained no tears. “Merrill was my First,” she said. “My apprentice. She left us when she found an ancient elven artifact, and became obsessed with the old ways.” Marathari shook her head sadly. “I knew it was the wrong path, yet she would not listen.”

“My father mentions an artifact, if you would only read the letter,” Hawke said softly.

The Keeper nodded, and spent a few minutes reading Malcolm’s words. When she had finished, she looked up at them. “Tell your Father I would be honored to meet with him,” she said. “Though I cannot say I am comfortable coming into the city.”

Varric spoke up. “The Peacekeeper has guaranteed your safety, himself, Keeper.”

“Very well,” she replied thoughtfully. “Tell him I will come to Kirkwall in two days time, three hours past sunrise.” The expression in her eyes grew fierce as she added, “And inform the Peacekeeper he may destroy the artifact.”

If Hawke was surprised by the Keeper’s vehemence, she did not show it. Instead, she nodded slightly and replied, “As you wish.”

After that, Anders lost track of the conversation as Varric and Hawke continued to discuss the particulars with the Keeper. Instead, the way Hawke’s mouth moved as she spoke captured his full attention. A single lock of hair had escaped the tight ponytail she wore, and was flirting with her lips in the errant breeze that came down from the mountain. More than anything, he wanted to brush it away from her mouth, wanted to run his fingers along the soft line of her cheek. He didn’t know how long he stood there staring at her, before Varric poked him in the ribs.

“Come on, Blondie, our work here is done,” he said. “You can ogle Amber on our way back to Kirkwall.”

Anders noticed then that the Keeper was walking back toward one of the aravels, and blushed crimson when he saw the amused way Hawke was now looking at him. Disgruntled, he turned and left the others to follow as they would.

⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼

Anders had kept a small lead ahead of the group as they made their way back to Kirkwall.  He hadn’t appreciated the way Varric had teased him at Sundermount, his embarrassment slow to fade even as they travelled several hours along the rugged trail. Hawke and the others made idle chatter behind him, and he was able to ignore them for the most part. They certainly had a familiarity among them, one that Anders wasn’t quite sure he fit into.

For a moment, he was happy to see they had finally reached the city, until the sun glared off the unmistakable armor of three Templars. Anders halted his approach, Hawke nearly bumping into him, he’d stopped so quickly.  

“What is it?” she asked, before standing beside him to see what he was staring at.

The Templars advanced, and Hawke noticed it was Cullen leading the group.  “Let me take care of this,” she whispered to Anders.

“No,” he muttered, though when she turned to inquire as to why, Hawke realized he wasn’t speaking directly to her. His fingers pinched the bridge of his nose, and a flash of blue light shown within his eyes for a moment. His breathing became irregular, and Hawke placed a gentle hand on his arm.  

“Anders, calm down,” she warned as Cullen grew closer.  “No harm will come to you today, I promise you.”

He seemed to relax slightly in response to her words, but remained tense as Cullen approached.  Hawke released her hold on Anders and stepped forward to greet the Templars. "Knight-Captain Cullen," she addressed him formally.  "What is this about?"

"Your presence is requested in the Gallows Mistress Hawke," Cullen stated.  "Your friend's as well," he added, nodding toward Anders.

Fenris and Varric stood behind the two, and Varric pointedly adjusted Bianca.  "Trouble Rosebud?" Varric asked.

“Not at all, Varric,” she said while keeping her eyes on Cullen, as if searching for some confirmation. The Templar nodded, and Hawke glanced over her shoulder at the dwarf.  “If you and Fenris would head back to the Hanged Man, we’ll catch up with you later.”

“We’ll be waiting, Amber,” Fenris told her, casting a threatening glance at Cullen before they walked on.

“The reason for this welcoming committee?” Hawke asked, once her friends were out of earshot.

“Your father has arranged for Anders to meet with Karl,” Cullen said, and Hawke noticed some of the tension within Anders’ rigid form dissipate.  “We should make haste; there isn’t much time before the Knight-Commander returns from her meeting with the Viscount.”

The journey to the Gallows was quiet, and continued to be so once they’d entered. The walk through the massive halls was certainly creepy. Though their path was blessedly free of other mages, probably intentionally, the walls seemed to close in around Hawke as she moved. She was no mage, had no fear of being locked within, but the suffocating feeling and utter depression radiating from the gray-stoned surroundings was enough to depress even the happiest of people.  She cast a sideward glance at Anders to see if he were feeling the same.  His tense jaw, pursed lips, and clenched fists told her he was, and probably struggling within himself to move one foot in front of the other.

“We’ll walk out of here today, I promise you,” she assured him again, placing her hand on his arm.

Anders glanced down at her small hand as she held onto him, and covered it with his own.  “Thank you,” he whispered, before returning his hand to his side.  Her support was welcomed, though he remained ready for anything. He knew very well what went on in places like this.

They turned the corner and entered a long corridor, where Cullen stopped in front of the first door they came to. He nodded to another Templar, who stood guard outside the door, and the man allowed them entrance. The room itself was as cold as the halls, white-stoned walls and floor, with only a battered table and two rickety chairs in the center.  Seated at the table was Karl, who stood upon seeing Anders enter the room.  The three filtered in, Cullen and Hawke close behind Anders.

Hawke watched as Anders closed the distance between himself and Karl. Their embrace was much more than a friendship, she realized, the way Anders brought his hand to the back of Karl's head and pulled him in close.  Karl nearly did the same, resting his hand on the nape of Anders' neck as they pressed against each other.  A moment later they pulled back just enough to rest their foreheads against one another, both men closing their eyes and relishing in the reunion. No, this was no mere friendship. This was intimacy, in its rawest form, and had they been alone, Hawke imagined they most certainly would have ended their embrace with a kiss.

Cullen pointedly cleared his throat, warning the two men to break apart.  Reluctantly, they did so, but not before Anders took Karl's hand and continued to hold it after they were seated at the table. Hawke hooked her elbow around Cullen's and pulled him back toward the doorway, attempting to give the two mages as much privacy as possible.  

"He needs to contact the Wardens immediately," Cullen said in a hushed tone to Hawke.  "While your father has managed to run interference from Meredith, I fear for Karl's safety among the other Templars."

Hawke replied without taking her eyes off Anders and Karl.  "I'll make sure he gets the word out, if he hasn't done so already," she assured Cullen.  "Should anything happen to Karl while in Templar custody however, you risk conflict with the Wardens now."

Cullen nodded.  "I am doing everything within my power to prevent that."

"Thank you," Hawke said as she strained to hear what Karl and Anders were talking about.  It was of little use though, their hushed tones and familiarity with each other led Hawke to believe that even if she could hear them, they were speaking in some code that only the two were privy to. Their history together must have been something, and thinking of it reminded Hawke that they had been in Kinloch Hold together.  "Cullen, did you know the two of them when you were in Ferelden?"

"I came to Kirkwall with Karl before the Blight," Cullen informed her. "When my transfer was approved, the Knight-Commander in Ferelden tasked me with escorting Karl, as well."

"Why was he moved to Kirkwall?" Hawke asked.

"I believe your father requested him when rumors of Orsino's resignation as First Enchanter were circling the Gallows," Cullen said. "But then, Orsino changed his mind. Your father offered Karl the opportunity to return to Ferelden, but he chose to say."  Nodding toward Anders, Cullen added, "Now I can see why."

First Karl was a potential new First Enchanter, and now he was a hair’s length away from being made tranquil? The questions and conspiracy theories racing within Hawke's mind nearly made her dizzy, so she pushed them aside for now.  "And Anders?"

"I’d never met him prior to today," Cullen said. "Though I had heard of him in Ferelden. It was impossible not to, as a lot of our training involved a history lesson in the many and varied ways he'd escaped the tower."

Anders past was certainly colorful, Hawke was learning quickly. Troublemaker in Ferelden, former Warden, has had romantic relations with men? What other secrets was he hiding, she wondered?

"Forgive me, Amber, but I feel as if I must speak on your father's behalf," Cullen said, interrupting her thoughts. "It is not wise for one of his daughters to be seen in the company of an apostate, even if he is a Warden."

Hawke studied the knight-captain's serious expression for a moment, carefully choosing her next words to him. "This, coming from the man who's bedding my sister?" she asked, enjoying the look of utter shock and embarrassment that crossed the young Templar's face.  "As I'm sure you have your reasons for doing what you do, despite what is best for my father, so do I."

"How did you..." Cullen began to ask, but the scraping of chairs against the floor interrupted him.

Anders stood and walked over to Hawke and Cullen, a look of desperation behind his slightly watery eyes. "You have a Templar, Ser Alrik, who has been making threats towards Karl. Taunting him with a branding iron at night in his cell."

"Anders," Karl said, standing in protest.

"No," Anders called back to Karl, and again Hawke could've sworn she saw a hint of blue flash within the apostate's eyes. He took a few deep breaths as if to calm himself before turning his gaze back to Cullen. "Karl fears for his life under Alrik's watch. Can something be done about this? A change in rotation perhaps?"

Cullen nodded. "We can move Karl to a more private cell, to be guarded under a handful of Templars that I will choose, personally. I will delay disciplining Alrik until after Karl has left Kirkwall, to avoid repercussions of this accusation."

"Thank you," Anders said sincerely, before returning to Karl.

"How kind of you to offer assistance," Hawke said, a hint of surprise in her voice.  

Cullen leaned against the wall as he continued to watch the mages. "This is not the first complaint I have heard against Alrik," Cullen admitted. "But do not twist my actions into sympathy for your apostate. I will do what I can, because your father has asked me to. Without his influence, your friend would be joining Karl in that cell."

Hawke patted Cullen on the arm. "Good to know how you really feel about mages," she said. "I wonder if my sister knows you wish her to be behind bars as well?"

Cullen opened his mouth to protest that statement, but Hawke was already walking away from him toward the table. "I'm sorry to interrupt," she said. "But we really should be going."

Karl looked up at her. "Anders says I have you to thank for my pending freedom."

Hawke shook her head. "Don't thank me yet." Turning to Anders, she added, "You need to get word to the Wardens immediately. How soon do you think they can be here?"

Anders shrugged. "There's an outpost not far from here. After speaking with your father the other night, I sent a messenger. We should be hearing back from them any day now."

"Good," Hawke said. "The sooner the better. I'll leave you to say your goodbyes." To Karl she added, "May the next time I see you be outside of Kirkwall's walls."

It wasn't until they had left the Gallows, and were on the small vessel crossing the bay from the prison to the docks, that Anders allowed himself to breath naturally again. He inhaled deeply, relishing the scents of the ocean air, and embracing the warmth of the sun upon his face. Less than an hour they’d spent in the Gallows, but it was enough for him to know he never wished to return.

“I can not thank your father enough for allowing me to see Karl,” Anders said as he watched Hawke run her hand along the water outside the boat.  “Or you for your assistance with his release.”

Hawke lifted her hand from the water, watching the drops fall from her fingertips.  “I can’t imagine what it is like to have your freedom taken from you,” she thought aloud. “To think, if things were different, I could be visiting my father and sister in such a place...” she shuddered at the thought, her mind unable to comprehend a life without seeing her family every day.

“You are lucky in that regard,” Anders agreed. “There are many more than just Karl, however. Hundreds of mages, locked within prisons all around Thedas. All for the sin of being born with a power we did not ask for.” He felt his anger begin to surface, and did his best to suppress it.  

“What is that?” Hawke asked, seeing the flash of blue light within his eyes, before he turned away.

“What?” he asked nonchalantly, refusing to meet her gaze as he stared out over the water.

Hawke shrugged. “Nothing, never mind,” she said, though she continued to watch him. Whatever it was, she knew her eyes weren’t playing tricks on her. Whenever he was afraid or angry, that spark lit from within.  She’d first noticed it at the Hanged Man, and then at least three times today. But If Anders didn’t want to talk about it, she wasn’t going to push him.

For now, anyway.

 


	7. Chapter 7

Carver shifted, and his stomach began to do backflips.  _No,_ he thought.  _Lie still. Lie perfectly still._  As he did just that, he noticed two things. The first, was that his bed had somehow become hard as stone. And cold, also like stone. The second, was that he could hear voices, barely discernable voices, one male and one female.

He slit open one eye.

Brown, rotted wood met his vision. Sort of curved, and dotted with knot-holes. His gaze wandered, and took in the slice of blue sky, and dull, dirty walls. No, he was definitely not in his bed. From the look of things, he'd passed out in the alley, again. Balls.

He heard the Chantry bells echoing down from Hightown. Even from so far away, each one increased the pounding of his aching head, until they finally stopped. Eight bells. An indecent hour to be awake, no matter where you were.

The voices moved closer, and it occurred to him that he recognized the higher, female voice. It was that blasted guardswoman, Aveline.

Carver curled himself more tightly into a ball, and prayed to the Maker she didn't find him where he lay, behind a stack of barrels, knowing it was the dungeons for him this time if she did.

"Just two more days," Aveline was saying. "I can hardly wait."

There was a sound... was that lips smacking?

"How long will Wesley be gone?" asked the deep baritone voice once the smacking had stopped.

Wesley? Wasn't that Aveline's husband? The Templar? Where would he go?

"Three entire days. Glorious, sex-filled days, at that," she said, followed by more smacking.

Yes, they were definitely kissing, no doubt about it. And, whoever Aveline was kissing, it wasn't her husband. Did he dare risk a peek around the barrels? Carver attempted to lift his head, but the blinding pain that shot through his skull stopped his efforts. He really needed to lay off that Antivan brandy - stuff packed a punch that lasted for days. He ended up getting drunk again just to ward off the impending hangover.

Aveline's voice drifted nearby, as did the clank of heavy armor. "Did you arrange for the room?" she asked, and her tone was almost silky - nothing like the barking he usually heard from the guardswoman.

"Yes," the man replied. "A little shanty in the next alley over. Seems that Hawke girl you know, she cleared out a gang from there last week." More smacking. "I've installed new locks."

Aveline's voice trailed off as they rounded the corner, but Carver caught one small glimpse of the man she was with, before they faded from sight. Another guardsman, by the crest on his armor. Funny looking sort of chap, with the longest sideburns he had ever seen. Looked like he had a couple of rats glued to his face.

Carver closed his eyes again and let out a low moan. Somehow, he needed to make it home. The stench coming off him was so bad, even he couldn't stand it.

⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼

Not very far away, in fact just around the corner, Hawke was tucked comfortably in a bed, her back pressed against a warm, voluptuous body. Her lover's arms were around her, one down low across her hips, the other slanted between breast, which were still sore and tingling from last night's love-play.

_Isabela does adore my breasts,_  Hawke thought with a sleepy smile. And Hawke enjoyed that Isabela preferred the dominant role in their bedroom fun. Nothing seemed to please her lover more than using her skillful mouth and dexterous fingers to bring Hawke to life, until she lay shaking and trembling in Isabela's arms. She'd also been a patient teacher, showing Hawke just what she liked, and how to set fire to her pirate lover's passionate nature, until they both were sweat-slicked and exhausted from hours and hours of... well, sex. Isabela always called it sex, never lovemaking.

Hawke was sure her lover was more than fond of her, and that had always been just the way she liked things. Attentive, passionate, and fun. The perfect initiation into intimacy really, in Hawke's opinion.

Last night had been no different, as they'd both brought so much pleasure to each other. And yet, for the first time, Hawke had felt the need for something more. Something she couldn't quite name, but that was somehow connected to a pair of warm, brown eyes and a set of magical, healing fingers.

If she'd admitted to Isabela that she'd thought of Anders while they were in the throes of passion, her lover would have laughed at her and suggested they invite the mage to join them. But Hawke didn't like the idea of Isabela touching Anders. Not at all.

The arms around her tightened, and lips were suddenly nibbling at her throat.

"Good morning, sweet thing," Isabela murmured against her neck.

Hawke squirmed and giggled, because now Isabela's fingers were working their way down between her thighs, as her other hand cupped the swell of her breast. As tempting as another tumble was, Hawke knew she didn't have time this morning. She was already late getting home, and Mother would have a fit if she missed another dress fitting.

It wasn't difficult to slip from Isabela's embrace, considering how sleepy her friend still was. She was on her feet and reaching for her clothes in seconds.

"No fair, Amber," Isabela complained with a pout. "I was just getting started."

"You know I have to go," Hawke replied. "Or Mother will go into hysterics."

Isabela avidly watched Hawke slip into her clothes, obviously pleased with the view. "Tonight then?" she asked.

Hawke hesitated, her fingers stilled on the last set of buttons.

Isabela sat up, and a wicked gleam shimmered in her eye. "I knew this was going to happen, eventually," she said.

Hawke's fingers resumed their task, more quickly than before. "What would happen?"

"I just knew that sweet heart of yours would start beating for someone else," Isabela replied, and stood up, in all her glorious nakedness. "It's alright, Amber. I'm always here for a little fun, whenever you want."

"My heart's not beating for anyone," Hawke replied. "I've just got a busy schedule over the next few days."

The laughter that suddenly filled the room nearly startled Hawke. "Whatever you say, Amber." Isabela took a few steps closer until they were mere inches from each other. "Do I get a goodbye kiss, at least?"

Hawke smiled, and took Isabela's face in her hands. Soon she was lost in the sultry lips and expert tongue of her lover, and it took her a minute to notice that her shirt was now halfway unbuttoned again.

"Isabela!" Hawke laughed, and slipped again from her arms. "You are incorrigible."

"That's my middle name, sweet thing," she agreed.

"I really do have to go," Hawke said, and with a last peck on Isabela's lips, she made her escape.

By the time she'd made her way downstairs, through the bar and out into the soft morning light, Hawke was still fully distracted by Isabela's attempts to waylay her. So, when she nearly ran into the staggering form of her brother, Hawke let out a curse.

"Amber," Carver slurred, as he winced and brought a hand to his temple. "Watch where you're going." He was swaying precariously, and despite the horrific odor coming off of him, Hawke put an arm around his waist to steady him.

"Where'd you pass out this time?" she asked as she began to lead him down the street. "You smell like a sewer."

"Alley, back there," he said, and nearly toppled them both when he swung his arm and tried to point.

"Just be still, brother," Hawke said. "We'll get you home and into a bath."

"Never guess what I saw," he said, peering down at her.

"Just watch where you put your feet," Hawke told him as they approached the steps that led to Hightown.

"That red-haired bitch," he continued as if Hawke hadn't spoken. "That guard."

"Come on, Carver, lift your bloody feet," Hawke said, exasperated. At this rate, they'd be near nightfall getting home. "Aveline?"

"Yeah, that one," he replied, and gingerly placed on foot on the next step. "Saw her with somebody, heard her smooching."

That was odd. Why would Wesley be on patrol with Aveline in Lowtown? Yet in truth, Hawke could care less if the guardswoman was kissing her husband in an alley. "Just a few more steps," she said. Carver was twice her weight and she was half afraid his staggering would send them both tumbling down the stone stairway.

"Wasn't that Templar, either," he said. "Guy had a furry face."

"What are you going on about, Carver?" Hawke asked. He was still obviously drunk, and probably didn't know what he'd seen.

They stopped once they entered the market, giving Hawke a chance to catch her breath.

"Aveline," he began to say, but then clutched his stomach. "Uh oh."

"No, Carver, not now," Hawke groaned, but she knew what was coming. She hurried him behind Hubert's stall, and barely got out of the way before he vomited all over the pavement.

Hubert heard the retching, and came around the corner to glare at them. "This is the second time this week," he complained. "I have to pay those urchins to clean up your brother's mess."

"Send me a bill," Hawke said dismissively, and led Carver away.

Later, after she'd gotten her brother cleaned up and into his bed, she wondered if Carver had really seen Aveline with another man, or if it was just another one of his drunken delusions. However, considering how cross Aveline and Wesley had been with each other at lunch the other day, maybe it was true.

Hawke sighed. Was there really such a thing as true love? Was there anyone in Kirkwall that wasn't cheating on their spouses, or sneaking around having sex with Templars?

Isabela's words came back to her as she finished cleaning the bathing room, and prepared to draw her own bath.

_I knew that sweet heart of yours would would start beating for someone else._

Did she want it to? Did she want to risk heartache and betrayal by falling in love?

⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼

The dwarf in him always admired the stonework of the Gallows, but the Kirkwall resident in him made Varric uneasy as he walked through the dimly lit corridor. It didn't help his apprehension that Bianca had been taken from him at the entrance gate, a "necessary inconvenience" the Templar had told him, before he was allowed admittance to see the Peacekeeper. Interesting that having his crossbow with him was never an issue before, and now Varric was curious more than ever about the reason for the heightened security.

Passing between Meredith and Orsino's offices, Varric almost felt the waves of tension radiating between the two. Both doors were shut, but the dwarf swore he heard Meredith growling behind one, and Orsino sighing behind the other. He moved hurriedly beyond both, hoping to reach Malcolm's office before either one decided to see who was walking down the hall.

The guard at the Peacekeeper's door announced Varric's arrival, and the dwarf glared at him before entering Malcolm's office. Whatever low profile he was trying to keep by silently walking was now meaningless, as the guard's voice echoed throughout the hall. Malcolm smiled as he gestured for Varric to take a seat before nodding to his guard to leave them alone.

"If this is the way it's going to be when I have to report in," Varric began as the guard closed the door, "then we're meeting at the estate from now on."

Malcolm snuffled a laugh. "Yes, you do look quite naked without that crossbow strapped to your back."

"I feel naked," Varric said. "And her name is Bianca, as you well know." He studied the Malcolm's worried expression for a moment. "Is there trouble? What's with the added precautions?"

The Peacekeeper ran his hand through his darkened hair. "Rumors of threats mostly, which is why I'm glad you're here, though I assume you've come to report on what happened with the Dalish? Since your trip to Sundermount, I haven't seen my daughter for more than five minutes to discuss it."

Varric chuckled. "Yeah, Amber's been keeping herself pretty busy these days."

"Anders," Malcolm stated, though his tone hinted that he wanted details.

"I mean no disrespect," Varric said, "but I think Carver has been a bigger reason for her recent distractions, more than the Warden apostate."

"You know you are always free to speak your mind, Varric," Malcolm said as he stood to stare out the window. "I am well aware of my son's... struggles. As of late, though, I had hoped our recent discussion about his behavior would have convinced him to slow down."

Varric wasn't certain how to respond to the internal struggles of the Hawke family, so he returned to Malcolm's original question. "Anders has maintained a respectful distance, though I think that's more because of you than her. I did invite him to visit the Dalish with us, but even then he was the perfect gentleman." Varric didn't add the bit about Anders ogling Malcolm's daughter just before they left. The Peacekeeper didn't need to know everything.

Malcolm turned to look at Varric. "And Amber, I imagine, has not."

Varric shook his head. "I'll never speak ill of her, you know this."

"I know," Malcolm said as he returned to his desk. "She trusts you, and respects you, as do I. Which is why," he sat down and looked Varric directly in the eye, "I'm going to insist you take my daughter to the Deep Roads, for your brothers expedition."

Varric's mouth opened to speak, and for the first time in a while, the dwarf could not find words to say.

"The threat I spoke of earlier was directed toward my family," Malcolm continued. "Though I do not like the idea of Amber joining you to face the darkspawn, I fear the Deep Roads may be safer than Kirkwall right now."

"And the rest of the family, they safe?" Varric asked, keeping his tone casual.

Malcolm nodded. "Leandra remains at the estate, which is guarded. Bethany is in... capable hands, when she isn't at home. And Carver is being watched. None of them are aware, however, and I prefer it remain that way. If someone is going to make a move on my family, they need to be free to do so in order to draw them out."

"Amber is quite capable of defending herself," Varric stated. "Should you wish to draw them out..."

"I will not use my daughter as bait, Tethras," Malcolm replied. "For the moment, I suspect this is no more than a threat made in the heat of anger," he continued. "But should it escalate, I want her out of the city."

Varric raised a brow. "And not the others. Which leads me to believe that what you aren't telling me is that Amber was the real target of this threat."

"You should consider taking Anders as well," Malcolm continued, ignoring Varric's prodding. "Once his friend is escorted from Kirkwall by the Wardens, he may become a target as well, for interfering in Gallows business. I won't say more on the matter, but yes, I believe the two are connected."

Varric knew not to push Malcolm for more information, but he could piece together that Hawke's involvement in freeing Karl probably pushed a few buttons within the Templar ranks, and maybe within the Circle as well. If Malcolm wanted both Hawke and Anders out of Kirkwall, he probably suspected the source of the threats, and needed time to deal with the situation without worrying about his family.

"I'll do what I can," Varric said. "Although you know Amber, she'll grow suspicious the moment I tell her she can go. I've been denying her request for weeks."

"You are a master storyteller, Varric," Malcolm said. "I'm sure you'll think of something to convince her why you've changed your mind. And what of the Dalish?"

"Their Keeper, Marethari, has agreed to a meeting, and will arrive in Kirkwall tomorrow, three hours past sunrise," Varric informed him. "She also said you should destroy the artifact."

Malcolm nodded. "I will prepare her welcome, and get the Templars and mages on the artifact. And Amber's interaction with them?"

"It took some prodding," Varric said, "but diplomatic as always on your behalf."

A proud-filled smile curled Malcolm's lips. "Glad to hear it, though I'd expect no less from her." Malcolm reached into his desk drawer and withdrew a coin pouch which he tossed at Varric. "The agreed upon sum for your time."

Varric smiled at the sound of coin within his hand. He knew by weight alone it contained at least five sovereign. "A pleasure doing business with you, Peacekeeper," the dwarf said as he stood. "Now if you'll forgive me, I don't trust those Templars with Bianca for very long."

"I understand," Malcolm said, mindlessly running his fingers along his staff that rested beside him against the wall. "Tell your brother to come see me, and soon. Add how unhappy I'll be if I have to seek him out, instead."

Varric laughed. "I'm sure Bartrand will piss himself at the mere mention of your name. I'll enjoy delivering that message."

"As long as he cleans himself up before he arrives," Malcolm said. "And Varric," he added, "tell Amber nothing of this threat. Understood?"

Varric nodded before exiting the office, a quickness in his step inspired by an eagerness to retrieve his weapon. Now he had to come up with a convincing story for Hawke about the Deep Roads, one she wouldn't see through.

That would be an interesting challenge.

⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼

Hawke moved hesitantly through Darktown, her eyes darting constantly to the shadows that seemed to eerily move in her peripheral vision. She knew it was a mistake visiting the underbelly of Kirkwall alone, but she was determined to find Anders without subjecting herself to the lectures her friends no doubt would bestow upon her. She moved swiftly toward the familiar face of Tomwise, and his stall of poisons.

"Ah, Amber, a welcome sight in the dust and grime of the dark," Tomwise said when he greeted her. "Back so soon for more? I'm afraid I haven't replenished the deathroot you purchased the other day, but if you give me some time..."

Hawke cut him off with a wave of her hand and presented him with the pack she had slung across her shoulder. "Not buying today, friend. Returning a favor." She dumped the contents of the pack onto the table. "A few things I picked up recently, mostly around Sundermount."

The elven merchant's eyes lit up as he perused the large quantity of deep mushroom and glitterdust. "This is more than what I gave you in deathroot," he began. "Anything you wish that I have, name it and it is yours!"

"How about information?" Hawke asked with a sly smile.

Tomwise nodded. "If I possess the knowledge, certainly."

"The mage healer," Hawke said. "I know he lives around here somewhere. Would you happen to know?"

"That I can easily provide," Tomwise said cheerfully. "Down those stairs and to the left," he pointed. "Look for the door with the lit lantern above, the healer is within. Be careful along the way serah, some of the inhabitants of Darktown may see you as an easy target to pick up some extra coin."

Hawke placed her hand on the hilt of her dagger. "They can try my friend, they can try." With another quick smile she made her way down the stairs, keeping her eyes out for pickpockets and shady characters.

As confident as she'd sounded when she spoke to Tomwise, Hawke wasn't very comfortable moving through Darktown on her own. The residents of the grimmest part of Kirkwall, if you could even call people slumming in the alleys  _residents_ , were either sick from disease, skinny from malnutrition, or aggressive and dangerous from their daily struggles to survive. The children had the worst of it; those in Hightown could always be heard giggling or playing on the stoned ground, but these children merely sat on the dirty floor, staring at her with wide eyes as she moved past. Hawke made a mental note to speak to her father about this, to see what was being done for these families.

Rounding the corner to yet another flight of stairs, Hawke again felt as though she were being followed. Looking ahead, she saw the double-doors with the lit lantern above, and quickened her pace. When heavy footsteps behind her increased their rhythm as well, Hawke turned quickly to confront whoever it was, but only the smoke of kicked up dirt could be seen. Her grip tightened on her dagger as she continued to move, but suddenly three men came out of the shadows and blocked her path.

"I don't know about you, boys," one man said, "but this one doesn't look like she belongs down here with the likes of us."

"Nope," another said, holding a long piece of wood in his hand. "How much you think she's got on her?"

"Enough to feed us for a month, at least," the third said, as they moved closer.

Hawke quickly surveyed her surroundings, looking for an escape. "Three of you attacking a woman? Has Darktown stripped you of your manners as well?" she said, trying to buy herself time to come up with a plan.

"So if we say please, you'd give up all your coin?" one of them said. "I don't think so."

"Name your price," Hawke said, reaching for her coin purse. The men stared blankly at each other, not expecting this reaction, and Hawke used that to her advantage to retrieve a flask from her pocket instead. Before the men could react, Hawke threw down a shock bomb, startling them, and she used the smoke from the effect to slip behind them, now only inches from her destination.

"You'll pay for that, bitch," one of the men said, stuttering from the bomb's effect. The one holding the piece of wood lunged for Hawke, and she ducked out of the way a split second before the wood came in contact with the door, the impact causing a ringing in Hawke's ear. She hit the ground, rolling just out of reach of the third man, who had lunged at her, trying to grab her around the waist. With the hilt of her dagger, Hawke slammed the back of his knee, causing him to cry out in pain and fall to the ground.

The other two hovered over her now as she tried to inch away from them, and one bent down to grasp her ankle, in a surprisingly quick move. Hawke countered the attempt, and used her other leg to kick the man under the chin, sending him backward, a stream of curses falling from his lips. The one who had called her a  _bitch_  began laughing as he stared down at her. "Feisty one, aren't ya," he said.

"You have no idea," Hawke replied silkily. She grabbed a handful of dirt beneath her and threw it in his face, before jumping to her feet and pulling out her other dagger. "I suggest you walk away now, before I'm forced to actually hurt you."

"Still three on one, little lady," one of them said, as they regrouped and cornered her again.

"Not anymore," a voice came from behind them, and a second later the three men were thrown back several feet away from Hawke. Two slammed against the wooden wall, while the other landed on his back on the hard ground with a loud grunt of pain.

Hawke saw Anders standing in the doorway under the lit lanterns, the orb on the tip of his staff glowing brightly. "You will not harm her," he warned the men, pointing his staff in their direction.

"We.. we didn't know she was with you!" one of the attackers insisted, trying and failing to get on his feet.

Anders placed himself between the men and Hawke. "Now you know. Let everyone else know as well, this woman is not to be harmed. Have I made myself clear?"

"Yes, yes healer," another said as he stood, helping his friends. When they all were back on their feet, they ran up the stairs and out of sight, leaving a cloud of dust in their wake.

Anders turned to Hawke, looking over her for any sign of injuries. "Are you alright? Did they hurt you?" he asked.

Hawke shook her head, the adrenaline still coursing through her veins causing her to shake involuntarily. She looked up at him, as if seeing him for the first time. "Anders?"

Anders put his arm around her. "Come on, let's get you inside."


	8. Chapter 8

"What exactly were you thinking, coming to Darktown alone?" Anders asked, frustration clear in every syllable.

Hawke shrugged. "That I'd come by and say hello? I know I wasn't invited, but ask anyone, I tend to do what I want, and no, I don't always think it through beforehand."

"You were lucky," Anders continued. "Had I not been here..."

"But you were," she said with a smile. "My hero, come to save the day."

Anders shook his head, hardly believe she could be so calm and flippant. "Didn't save you from getting hurt, though," he added, watching with concern as she limped across the floor.

Hawke sat on one of the wooden crates, wincing as she did so. The hiss of pain she attempted to stifle through her teeth caught Anders attention.

"Let me see," Anders said, closing the distance between them.

Hawke waved her hand dismissively. "It's nothing, really. Just a bruise. I'll be fine in a few days."

"Nothing can turn into  _something_  all too quickly if left untreated," Anders said, crossing his arms. "Does your sister let you walk around wounded?"

"My sister isn't much of a healer," Hawke explained with a sigh. "The only training she's received has been from my father, and he specializes in entropy and force, rather than spirit and creation."

Anders lifted one eybrow. "That's... surprising, actually. Entropy relies more on the chaotic nature of the Fade. Given his demeanor and title, I would've thought differently."

Hawke's smile widened. "I'm sure many people assume as much, which I'm sure my father uses to his advantage whenever the need arises. It's a serious mistake to underestimate him."

"Indeed, as I already did," Anders admitted ruefully. "You know Amber, your knowledge of magic is impressive."

"I may not be a mage, but I was raised by one. Father made it mandatory for both Carver and I to sit in on Bethany's lessons growing up.  _Knowledge is power,_  he used to say. While he was teaching my dear sister how to use and control her magic, he was teaching us how to defend against it." Hawke suddenly winced, and adjusted her position to alleviate the throbbing ache in her thigh.

"Must you be so stubborn?" Anders asked, extending his hand to her.

Hawke reluctantly accepted his assistance and stood. "Fine," she said. "But you'd better lock the doors, so no one walks in on us in a compromising position." Her persistent smile turned mischievous. "Unless of course, you don't mind that sort of thing."

Anders cast her a questioning glance, but said nothing as he moved to secure the doors. Hawke unbuckled her armor, letting it fall to the floor with a loud thud, and when Anders turned to face her again, she was clad in only a thin white shirt and her trousers. When she untied the rope belt and began pushing her pants below her waist, Anders turned away, a flush burning his cheeks.

Hawke couldn't help but laugh at his sudden shyness. "How else did you imagine healing a bruise on my thigh?" she asked. "Really Anders, I've already told you that I don't bite. And remember, you insisted on this, not me."

He had insisted, and now Anders nearly regretted it. The way she was bent over his table, her long legs exposed, taunting him, it took all of his strength to ignore the growing discomfort hidden beneath his robes. He imagined himself running his hand along those calves, up her inner thigh, and it wasn't until he saw just how serious her wound was that he was able to calm himself.

"Maker, how did this happen?" he asked, focusing his attention on her bruised and bloodied flesh.

Hawke followed his gaze to her thigh, seeing the damage for herself for the first time. "No wonder it hurts," she said with a small chuckle. "I think it was when one of them pushed me to the ground. I skidded across the stone, then continued to push myself away from him. Now that I think about it, I may have landed on one of my hidden daggers."

Anders retrieved a cloth and sterile water to clean the wound. "Self impalement?"

"Don't tell Varric," Hawke said. "He'd never let me live it down."

"Your secret is safe with me," Anders told her as he moved a stool to sit beside her. "This may sting a little," he added, retrieving a potion from his pouch. "But I have to clean out the dirt and grit before healing the skin."

Hawke braced herself against the pain, looking away as Anders poured the contents of the flask onto the cloth. "Take my mind off it," she said. "Tell me what brought you to Kirkwall. Was it Karl?"

"In part, yes," Anders said as he began tending to her wound. "Before your father came up with the solution to secure his release through conscription, I was preparing for something a little more drastic." He purposefully avoided her gaze and concentrated on his efforts. "I also came here to escape the Wardens. No outposts in the area, and plenty of refugees to blend in with. Though, now that I've sent word about Karl, they'll know I'm here."

"You won't be leaving with them when they come for Karl?" Hawke asked, and then hissed from the application of the antiseptic potion Anders was applying to her leg.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Nearly there."

"It's fine," she replied, though he could hear the tightness in her voice.

"And no, to answer your question," Anders said. "I will not be returning to the Wardens."

Hawke turned her head to look at him. "Really? I was under the impression that you and Karl... well, were more than... friends, let's just say."

Anders retrieved a second cloth, and sat back to meet her gaze. "Growing up in the Circle, everything is about order and rules. The apprentices... we found ways to make it bearable. Karl and I, well, he was the first. Together we forgot about being nothing but slaves to the Templars. We haven't been a couple for a long time, but he's still a good friend, and I'd do anything to keep him safe."

"Well, we have that in common," Hawke said, still peering at him over her shoulder.

Anders kept his focus on his work, meticulously cleaning out each bit of grit from the wound. "What's that, same-sex relationships?"

Hawke laughed. "No, doing anything to keep our friends safe. But I suppose that's true as well, though I wouldn't call what Isabela and I have a  _relationship_. I'm not sure Isabela could even say the word with a straight face."

"Then why bother?" Anders asked, setting aside the second cloth. If Hawke wasn't in love with Isabela...

"Everyone needs comfort," Hawke told him, and he heard something new in her voice. Sadness? Regret? "You said so yourself, being with Karl was an escape. Maybe Isabela is mine."

Now it was Anders who laughed, but with little humor. "And just why do you need to escape? From where I'm sitting, you have the perfect life. Surrounded by friends, a loving, supportive family, the ability to walk free in Kirkwall, knowing no one will touch you because of who your father is. What could you possibly need an escape from?"

"Not everything is always as it seems, Anders," Hawke replied quietly.

He glanced up, and took a moment to read her expression. Yes, it was sadness, something he had never seen on her pretty face before. "No, I suppose not," he agreed, but pushed her no further. Every time he thought he had a handle on who this woman was, she surprised him, yet again. It seemed there was still a lot he didn't know about Amber Hawke, but then again, he had a few secrets of his own.

"Almost done?" she asked, interrupting his thoughts. "It's getting a bit chilly, standing here with no pants on."

Anders nodded with a smile, trying to keep a healer's detachment despite her pantless state. "Almost. A bit of magic and you'll be as good as new."

The warmth of his magic washed over her, and Hawke closed her eyes, enjoying the way her skin tingled from his energy. He focused on the large gash first, knitting her skin back together, and then relieved her of the bruising that flawed her pale skin. Within moments the shades of purple and blue disappeared, and her skin was left only with a slight redness from his touch.

"The soreness may linger for a few hours," Anders cautioned her, once he was finished.

"I'm used to being a little sore," she teased as she stepped into her trousers.

Anders stood and busied himself, putting away his supplies while she dressed. He glanced over at her for a moment as she reached down to retrieve her armor, and saw her shirt ride up slightly in the back. Along the base of her spine he noticed a large scar, and another that disappeared around her ribcage. Even if her sister and father weren't trained in healing magic, they should've been able to at least minimize the scarring. These wounds, from what he could see, were clearly left to heal on their own.

"How did you get those?" he asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.

She turned to look at him, following his gaze. "Don't you know it's not polite to point out a woman's flaws?" Hawke asked, though there was no trace of anger in her tone. Quickly she pulled down her shirt and began putting on her armor. "Care to escort me to the Hanged Man? Or must I brave the terrors of Darktown again by myself?"

Anders took her hint and didn't pursue the matter. "I will accompany you," he said in answer to her question. "Though by this time tomorrow, the locals will know to leave you alone."

"Is that an invitation to come see you again?" Hawke teased, a slight twinkle in her eye.

"At the very least, I expect you to come to the clinic the next time you're injured," Anders replied seriously.

"Be careful what you offer," Hawke said as she brushed past him toward the door. "I may find myself becoming deliberately clumsy."

⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼

When Hawke walked into his suite with Anders in tow, Varric quickly assembled a properly disgruntled expression on his face. If he had any hope at all of convincing her of his cleverly constructed lie, he needed to act the part, not just say the words.

Hawke took one look at him and said, "You look like you need a pint, my friend." She pulled out a chair and sat down next to him at the table. "What's going on? I haven't seen you look this depressed since Corff turned down your offer to buy a share the Hanged Man."

Varric snorted, glad that Hawke had given him a real memory to feel grumpy about. It made his job that much easier.

"It's nothing for you to worry over, Rosebud," said Varric. He glanced up at the mage who still hovered by the door. "Sit down, Blondie. You're making me tired just watching you fidget."

"I was not fidgeting," Anders replied, but he did at least take the seat next to Hawke.

"Let's hear it, Varric," Hawke insisted. "You know you can't keep anything from me."

"Hmph. How would you know if I did?" he smirked.

Hawke's own sly grin curved her lips. "I have my ways, dwarf. Now, spill it."

He studied her through squinted eyes for a moment, drawing out the effect that he was reluctant to tell her. Varric brought his index finger to his mouth and tapped on his lips, stalling even further. "Maybe you could help me…" he eventually drawled out, and he noticed the immediate gleam in her eyes. Hawke was a problem solver if ever there was one, and he knew just how to put the bait out for her to nibble.

"Of course I can help," she replied. "Tell me what's wrong and I'll fix it."

"You're awfully sure of yourself, aren't you?" offered Anders.

Hawke simply winked at him and turned back to Varric expectantly.

"Would you consider…" he began, scratched his chin, then shook his head. "No..."

"Consider what?" Hawke pushed.

Varric counted to ten before he replied, causing Hawke to squirm in her seat. He sighed heavily. "Consider perhaps making me a loan?"

The surprise on her face was almost comical. In all the years they'd been friends, he'd never once asked her for money, so there's no way she would have been expecting it now. However, the surprise turned almost immediately to suspicion, a common trait among the very rich whenever coin was involved.

"How much and for what?" she asked, her eyes narrowed.

"Fifty sovereigns," Varric replied succinctly.

Anders whistled through his teeth at the mention of such a large amount of gold.

"For…" Hawke prompted.

"You wound me," he told her in a mock-sad voice. "I thought you trusted me."

Hawke didn't reply, only crossed her arms and glared at him.

Varric purposefully mumbled his response in a way Hawke could not possibly understand.

"Varric," she warned.

"Deep Roads," he said more clearly, with just the right amount of snark added in. "There, you happy?"

"I've tried to bribe my way in several times," said Hawke. "You told me you were covered."

"Andraste's ass!" exclaimed Anders. "You want to go to the Deep Roads? Are you insane?"

Varric grinned. "See, Rosebud? You don't want to go, take it from an expert."

Hawke ignored them both. "Why do you suddenly need the coin, Varric? What changed?"

Varric sighed again. Loudly and dramatically, if he did say so himself. "Cheese."

"Cheese?" repeated Hawke, and Anders let out a short laugh.

"If you must know, Bartrand invested all our coin in cheese, a ship full of the smelly stuff," he explained. "It was due to arrive from Ferelden this week, make us a shitload of gold."

"Was due?" asked Hawke. "What happened?"

"Storm at sea, the cheese was lost, I'm broke," he said, with just the right hint of petulance in his tone.

"A shipload of cheese? Do they even make cheese in Ferelden?" Anders asked with a disbelieving laugh. He opened his mouth to say more, but Varric gave him a swift kick under the table. "Ouch!"

The second Hawke turned her head to see what had made the mage exclaim, Varric very slightly shook his head, and drew a finger across his throat.

"Are you alright?" Hawke asked Anders.

He glared at the dwarf, before giving Hawke a weak smile. "Fine, just hit my knee under the table, is all."

When Hawke turned back to Varric, there was a worried expression on her lovely features. "What about the crew? Tell me they didn't all drown."

Varric could have kicked himself. He'd neglected to consider his Rosebud's soft heart. "Oh no, not a hand lost," he improvised. "They were picked up by an Amaranthine merchant ship within a few hours." He held his breath waiting to see if he'd gone too far.

Fortunately, Hawke's face cleared, and then she smiled. "So you need me to loan you the coin." It wasn't a question.

"Just a loan," Varric agreed. "I'll pay you back the minute I return, loaded with fabulous treasure." He knew she had the fifty sovereigns, too, because he'd been the one to handle the transaction when she'd received her coming-of-age inheritance from her Amell grandparents.

"Come off it, Varric," she said, and his heart skipped a beat, afraid she was about to call him out. He noticed a pleased smirk cross Anders' features.

"What?" he asked, attempting to keep up the charade. "You know I'm good for it."

Hawke leaned forward in her chair and rested her chin on her hands. Her smile was deadly sweet. "You want the coin? You'll take me with you."

"Rosebud, no," said Varric.

"Amber, no," echoed Anders.

"Yes," she said complacently. "Those are my terms, take them or leave them."

Varric slowly shook his head, and turned his mouth down in a most impressive frown. "Can't do it, you know that. Malcolm would have my hide if anything happened to you."

"Let me worry about dear daddy," replied Amber. "And myself."

Varric watched as Anders laid a hand on her shoulder. "Listen to the dwarf, Amber. You don't want to go down there. I guarantee you it's the last thing you'd ever want to do."

For a minute, Varric was worried, because instead of biting his head off, Hawke was looking at Anders with real consideration. They'd barely met, and already the mage was capable of influencing her? Interesting.

Softly, she said, "I have to do this, Anders. Have to do something on my own, prove myself…"

"Against darkspawn? Are you mad?" he nearly shouted.

Immediately, Varric knew the mage had made a fatal error. Hawke's back stiffened and a haughty look of displeasure crossed her face. When she wanted to, Hawke could pull of noble snobbery with the best of them. "I assure you, I am perfectly sane."

When she looked back at Varric, he had to stifle a pleased grin. With a little bit of unexpected help from Anders, he knew it was safe to give in now.

"Terms, Varric. What say you?" Hawke asked.

It was easy enough to frown at her, and shake his head as if he'd been beaten. "All right, Rosebud," he said reluctantly. "But no interest on the loan, we clear?"

"Perfectly," Hawke said with a wide smile. "When do we leave?"

They spent some time discussing some of the particulars, while Anders sat quietly fuming. Varric really needed a private word with the mage, so he was relieved when Isabela popped her head into the room.

"Amber!" she said. "I've been looking all over for you." She rushed into the room and grabbed Hawke by the hand and tugged. "Come on, sweet thing. There's a sexy Antivan downstairs doing knife tricks that you've just got to see."

With a shrug and a laugh, Hawke allowed herself to be drawn away. Anders also rose to leave, but Varric stopped him with a word.

"Sit," was all he said.

As if he'd finally been given permission to voice his opinion, Anders immediately went into a tirade. "You can't let her go down there," he said. "She has no idea what she's getting into. It's not just the darkspawn… there are other things down there. Worse things, maybe."

"You finished?" Varric asked.

"No! Why you would ever agree to…" Anders went on, but Varric interrupted him.

"Because Malcolm asked me to," he said without fanfare. "Amber's life is in danger, and we need to get her out of Kirkwall for awhile."

Of all the things he'd expected the mage to say next, what came out of his mouth completely surprised him. "Then I'm going, too," he said in a way that brooked no argument.

Which was fine with Varric, he had no desire to argue. In fact, he was feeling entirely pleased with himself. Two birds with one stone, and all that.

"I guess having a healer along wouldn't be a bad idea," Varric said casually. "If you insist."

Anders pressed his fingers to his forehead and slowly shook his head. "I can't believe I'm volunteering to go down into the blighted Deep Roads," he said. "I swore I'd never go back there again."

"No one's twisting your arm, Blondie," said Varric.

Anders looked up at him sharply. "What's your game, dwarf? What aren't you saying here?"

Uh oh, thought Varric, wondering if he'd taken his careless attitude a bit too far. Anders reminded him a little bit too much of himself in that moment, and for once, he decided to play it straight. He nodded once, as if agreeing with himself. "This is where we find out if I can trust you," Varric told Anders. "You get this one chance, Blondie. Don't blow it."

"Fair enough," Anders agreed. "I guess that works both ways, doesn't it?"

Varric chuckled. "It always does." He considered his next words carefully. "First off, you can't tell Amber that her trip to the Deep Roads has been sanctioned and approved by the Peacekeeper of Kirkwall."

"Why not?" Anders ask.

"Because then she wouldn't want to go, of course," Varric replied. "Secondly, even though I wasn't told exactly who threatened her, it's been hinted to me that it involves you, and Karl."

It was the strangest thing, Varric could have sworn he'd seen a glint of blue in the mage's brown eyes for a second there. He shelved his questions for now, but would pay better attention from here on out.

"Of course," muttered Anders, looking away from him. "Bloody Templars. They can't stand losing a chance to make a mage tranquil."

As much as Varric would have liked to argue, he knew Anders wasn't far from wrong. There were some good Templars, loyal to Malcolm Hawke and protective of their mage charges, but Meredith and her cronies were of the worst sort, always looking for reasons to go to extremes.

"Whatever the reason, and whoever made the threat, the simple truth is, it'll be a good thing if both you and Amber get out of this city for awhile," Varric said seriously.

Anders nodded slowly, his expression just as serious, before it suddenly transformed into shocked chagrin. "My clinic," he said. "What about my patients? I can't leave them..."

"Relax, Blondie," Varric said. "You have connections now. I'm sure some mage or another will just happen to turn up at the clinic to fill in while you're away."

"You're kidding, right?" Anders asked with a nervous little laugh.

"Nope. Dead serious," replied Varric. "Get used to it. The fun has just barely begun."

⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼

Varric was disappointed when he didn't find a shock of white hair and a pair of very pointed ears as he sauntered down to the bar. That meant he had a long trudge up to Hightown in his immediate future, and he gazed longingly at the tray of pints Norah carried across the room to where Hawke sat with Isabela, watching the Antivan and his fancy knife tricks.

That wasn't surprising. What was surprising was that he could have easily squeezed between them and taken a seat on the low bench himself. It had been a long time since he'd seen those two together when they weren't draped all over each other.

Things were certainly changing.

Varric shook his head and walked out into the Lowtown night.

Luck was with him, or more likely, Hawke had been on patrol recently, because his trip to the dilapidated mansion, which Fenris now owned - he still could hardly believe that one - was uneventful.

He thought it was a coin toss whether the elf would agree to his little proposition, but hey, nothing ventured, as they say.

Fenris was at home, and answered the door with an amused expression on his face.

"I've been expecting you," he said by way of a greeting as he ushered the dwarf into the entryway.

"Is that so?" Varric replied in a disbelieving tone as he glanced around. "I like what you've done with the place, elf."

It was shocking, really. Varric wasn't sure where the elf had gotten the coin, though a certain dark-haired rogue came to mind. The place was spotless, the corpses long gone, the furniture repaired and a new tapestry depicting a woodland scene graced the long wall centered between the stairways. It was quite the transformation.

Thank you, dwarf," Fenris said off-handedly. "Have a seat."

Varric sat down on a newly upholstered sofa and made himself comfortable. His spirits lifted considerably when Fenris procured a bottle of red wine and two silver goblets.

"How much?" Fenris asked as he handed a full goblet to Varric.

Varric lifted one eyebrow. "Do those tattoos give you mind reading powers?" he quipped.

"Come now, dwarf," said Fenris. "You plan to journey to one of the most dangerous places in all of Thedas." He studied Varric for a brief time. "And despite appearances, you are not stupid. Of course you would seek out the best warrior in the city to accompany you."

Varric ignored the jibe and inhaled the wine's heady aroma, then took a long drink before replying, "Ten sovereign and fifteen percent of whatever we find down there ."

Fenris chuckled. "If all we find are darkspawn, your offer isn't worth much."

"I guarantee you we'll find more than darkspawn," Varric returned, warming to the negotiation. This was the shit he lived for.

Several more glasses of wine later, the two shook hands on the agreed upon terms.

"Glad to have you aboard, elf," Varric said, and drained the last of his goblet. "It should be quite the adventure."

Fenris laughed. "Never mind the Deep Roads," he said. "It's always an adventure when Amber's involved."

Varric grinned and nodded. "Truer words never were spoken."


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N Well hello again! Surprise! After so long, perhaps you thought there would never be another chapter of Ambrosia? I'm happy to report that's not the case, and offer you chapter 9, in a "better late than never" sort of way. Life happens, as I'm sure you all know, but we are back on track, happily writing this story again. We hope you enjoy it! Huge thanks to everyone who is still with us!

"You smell like her," Leandra complained, as Malcolm slid next to her beneath the covers. "At least you could have bathed."

"I'm sorry, my love," he replied wearily. "It was an exhausting day."

"I don't want to hear about how having sex with  _her_  made you tired," Leandra whined, and scooted farther away from him in the large bed.

"Really, Leandra, you have no right to be so peevish. You agreed that my involvement with Meredith was essential to protect the mages." He rubbed a hand over his tired eyes. "And if you must know, my brief encounter with Meredith is not the cause of my exhaustion."

Leandra thought of her precious Bethany, the whole reason she'd agreed to Malcolm's wretched affair with the Knight Commander, in the first place. Her voice petulant, she asked, "Do tell, what task has made you so weary?"

For several minutes, Malcolm didn't answer, and Leandra was almost certain he'd fallen asleep. When he spoke at last, she nearly jumped.

"I've been assuring the safety of one of Kirkwall's most important citizens," he told her softly.

"And who would that be?" she asked. "The Viscount? The Grand Cleric?"

But this time, Malcolm did not answer.

⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼

While Varric was busy organizing plans for the expedition, and Anders was pacing the floor of his clinic wondering just what he'd gotten himself into, Hawke was having a mini-meltdown in her bedroom.

She knew she was procrastinating, and had no doubt that it would be better to just get it over with, but the thought of telling her father that she was going off to the Deep Roads into unknown danger had her very much on edge.

Yes, he encouraged her to make her own way in the world, and he'd never refused her anything she'd asked for, but she feared this time would be different. It would be her first trip away from home, and it wasn't as if she were planning a vacation to sample the good life in Orlais. No, she was planning to risk her life, all for the sake of wealth and fame, things which most people would assume she had quite enough of already.

Most people, however, did not have all the facts when it came to Hawke's life. Not even her own family did.

Hawke took a deep breath and marched to the door, as if she were going to battle. Before she could turn the knob, however, the door burst open and a tousle-haired Bethany came barging into her room.

"Sister!" Bethany exclaimed. "I need you to go to that wretched seamstress and force her to finish my gown today! The Viscount's ball is tonight, and I can't possibly wear something everyone has seen before!"

Hawke's heart sank. She'd forgotten all about the Viscount's ball, distracted as she was by the recent turn of events. Her own gown was hanging neglected in the closet, in hopes that she'd never have to wear the thing.

"Calm down, Bethany," Hawke said, attempting to soothe her agitated sibling. "I'm sure you'll have your dress in time."

"She's horrid, that woman. The last gown she made for me gaped horribly at the waist. I just know she'll have ruined this one, too," Bethany said, practically sobbing.

"I'll go, I promise," Hawke replied, putting an arm around her sister's shoulders and leading her from the room. "Have Mother make you some tea, and leave the rest to me."

Bethany sniffled. "Alright, Amber. But promise me you'll go this morning in case I need alterations."

Once Bethany was mollified, and under Leandra's care in the kitchen, Hawke pushed thoughts of the ball out of her mind and went in search of her father. When she opened the door to his study, however, it was Carver sitting at the desk instead of Malcolm. As usual, his eyes were puffy and bloodshot, but at least he appeared to be clean.

"Where's Father?" Hawke asked as she closed the door behind her. "And what are you doing up at this hour?"

Carver sighed heavily and ran a hand through his hair. "Father left for the Gallows about an hour ago," he replied, then held a piece of parchment up for Hawke's inspection. "Just look at this. How could a few drinks cost so much?"

Hawke read the invoice from the Hanged Man and whistled through her teeth. "Thirty sovereigns? That's excessive even for you, Brother."

"How am I supposed to pay for it?" he whined. "Father has cut me off, and I can't touch my inheritance for two more years."

Hawke flopped down in a chair. "Get a job?"

Carver snorted. "Right. Who in their their right mind would hire me?"

"You've got a point," Hawke said. Really, she didn't need to take on even more of her brother's problems. She had enough to worry about at the moment. "Maybe if you'd lay off the drink, Father would relent and help you out."

"You think?" he asked sincerely, but then shook his head in immediate denial. "What would I do then? Sit around and listen to Mother and Bethany talking nonsense all day?" He looked up at Hawke, and for the first time, she saw real fear in his eyes. "What am I going to do?"

For a brief moment, Hawke considered taking him along on the expedition, but only briefly. With no skills, and his addictions to wine and women, there was no way he'd be anything but a detriment.

"Sorry, Brother," she said. "Like the rest of us, you've got to figure out what you want out of life and then go for it."

"Easy for you to say," he said, his voice surly. "You always get what you want."

Hawke stood. "Yes, and I work hard for it, too," she replied, sick of his complaining. "I've got to go."

Knowing that she'd likely have to wait until tomorrow to talk to her father, Hawke went in search of the wretched seamstress.

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Knight Captain Cullen approached the Peacekeeper's office with a hint of trepidation. In his hand, he held a missive from Grey Warden outpost at Montsimmard, in Orlais. He hoped the letter contained a confirmation of their imminent arrival, rather than a delay, or worse yet, a refusal to conscript the circle mage.

Cullen took a deep breath, and knocked at the door.

"Enter," came Malcolm's deep baritone.

"Peacekeeper," Cullen said formally upon entering the room. "Word for Montsimmard has arrived." He held out the parchment to Malcolm.

The Peacekeeper broke the seal and inspected the contents. A slow smile crossed his face. "There was a slight delay, but a company of Grey Wardens will be here in three days time."

Cullen's relief was palpable. "Good news," he said.

Malcolm looked up and studied the Knight Captain's face. "Trouble?" he asked.

"I admit, it's been… a challenge," replied Cullen. "Ser Alrik dogs me night and day to regain custody of Enchanter Thekla."

"Should I have the Knight Commander speak to him?" asked Malcolm.

Cullen considered Malcolm's offer. With so much going on in the Gallows, and all his free time spent 'watching over' the Peacekeeper's daughter, he'd been running on empty these past few weeks. Yet, Cullen knew that bringing Meredith into the mix would only make matters worse. "Thank you, but no," he replied. "I can manage him for a few more days."

"Of that I am certain," said Malcolm agreeably. He shifted in his seat and folded his arms over his chest. "I've been also meaning to ask you if there's any news on Samson."

"Nothing of note," replied Cullen. "Although there are unsubstantiated rumours that he's had recent dealings with the Coterie."

"Lyrium?" asked Malcolm.

"I've not been able to gather any real proof," said Cullen. "But, yes. I believe that's the case."

"Real proof is exactly what I'd like to have on the man," said Malcolm. "But all in good time. For now, you are well aware of your priorities, my friend."

Cullen nodded. He was more than aware that his highest priority was a certain delectable, insatiable mage. He felt a brief pang of disappointment that the Viscount's ball would interfere with their usual, nightly tryst. Perhaps they could sneak off…

The Peacekeeper's voice interrupted his erotic musings. "...escort her safely back to Sundermount."

"Excuse me?" Cullen asked. He'd missed half of what Malcolm had been saying.

As if he knew exactly where the Knight Captain's mind had been, he gave Cullen a sly smile. "I said, after my meeting with the Dalish Keeper, I'd like you to personally escort her back to Sundermount."

Cullen bowed. "Of course, Peacekeeper," he said. "I will see to it."

"And I will see you at the Keep tonight," Malcolm added as he returned to the papers spread over his desk.

"Most certainly," replied Cullen respectfully, before exiting the office.

⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼

"Ambrosia, dear, run down and fetch me a bottle of the 7:22 Aggregio," called Leandra from the parlor. "I'll never make it through the night without a cordial first."

Hawke sighed, grabbed a candle from the table, and lifting her long dress to keep from tripping, made her way carefully down the basement steps. Again, she could not understand why her Mother refused to hire servants. It was one of the few things upon which she and Bethany agreed.

She lifted the light as she inspected the rows of dusty bottles, looking for the one her mother wanted. 8:13 Antivan Red, 9:01 Orlesian White, Westhill Brandy. Everything but the Aggregio, it seemed. Hawke was just about to give up and grab a bottle of the red, when a slight glimmer from the far shadows caught her eye. Holding her candle aloft, she made her way over the uneven stone floor to the very back wall of the cellar.

What she saw shocked her. Where she remembered once seeing a planked wooden wall, now stood a large, metal door, held fast with a lever. Gingerly, she tugged at the slat, and it easily lifted in her hand.

She was just about to attempt opening the door, when her mother's voice called down the stairwell. "Ambrosia! We'll be late!"

Hawke grabbed the nearest bottle of red and ran as quickly up the stairs as her long dress would allow. When it came to hobnobbing with Kirkwall's finest, her mother could be worse than the Knight Commander about punctuality.

"Oh my," said Leandra, taking the bottle of wine from Hawke and setting it on an end table, already forgotten. "You'll have to change your slippers, those are filthy now."

Hawke looked down at her feet, and saw two tiny specks of dust on her black satin shoes, which she quickly brushed away. "It's fine, Mother," she said.

Leandra began to fuss with Hawke's gown, then. Straightening the soft folds of blue velvet that draped snuggly from her waist and over her hips, and tugging down at the black, vested bodice to show off more of her cleavage.

"Mother!" Hawke complained. She was in no mood to advertise her wares to Kirkwall's finest.

Fortunately, Bethany chose that moment to make her entrance down the stairway. Hawke had to admit, her sister was a vision of loveliness. Her black curls piled high on her head, with artfully placed strands framing her face, and her ivory dress, trimmed in silver thread, made her look like a princess. Once she reached the bottom, Bethany did a little twirl, and the soft folds of her skirt swirled around her ankles, even as the backless dress showed off much more skin than Hawke would have liked. The nobles of Kirkwall were far more lecherous than the worst drunks at the Hanged Man.

"My beautiful daughters!" Leandra exclaimed, tears of happiness brimming in her eyes. "I shall be the envy of every mother at the ball!"

Her father and brother both waited at the door to escort them, Carver for once looking the part of the gentlemen, dressed in his dark green finery. Malcolm wore his Peacekeeper's robes, as always. His was a job that he was never released from, even for a night of festivities.

Even though Hawke was no fan of balls, and even less of socializing with nobility, as they made their way out into the chilly spring evening, her major regret was that she would not see Anders that night. To dance with him might have made the whole ridiculous affair worthwhile.


	10. Chapter 10

The Viscount's ball was in full swing, and after only two hours, Hawke had already fought off the groping advances of several drunken nobles. There was no one here that interested her, despite her mother's attempts to steer her in the direction of Saemus Dumar more than once. Hawke chuckled to herself at Leandra's blindness. She had known for the last five years that the Viscount's son preferred the company of men, never mind that he was currently swirling Bethany gracefully around the dance floor.

"Ambrosia, dear," came her mother's voice from behind her. Hawke turned to see Leandra being escorted by a tall man, his red-blond hair pulled back from his face in braids. "Allow me to introduce Gascard DuPuis, recently arrived from Val Royeaux."

The man's dress and bearing clearly indicated he was from a rich and powerful family, and though Hawke knew little of the hierarchy of Orlesian nobility, she had no doubt that Leandra was once again trying to match her with someone of high social standing.

"Messere DuPuis," Hawke said politely and gave him a small curtsy. "Welcome to the Free Marches."

Dupuis smiled ingratiatingly, and replied, "I would have come sooner, had I known what beauty awaited me here."

Oh please, Hawke thought, but outwardly she returned his smile. "What brings you to our fair city?" she asked.

Hawke was sure the looked of unease that crossed his handsome features had not been her imagination. He quickly recovered his smile, however, and said. "A bit of family business - nothing of consequence."

"Messere DuPuis's family is fourth in line to the throne, Ambrosia," said Leandra. "A fine noble family, indeed."

Hawke felt heat rise to her cheeks at her mother's blatant insinuation. DuPuis' smile once again faltered slightly, but in the next moment he was extending his hand to her.

"Would Mistress Hawke grant me the pleasure of a dance?" he asked.

Try as she might, Hawke could think of no valid excuse to refuse his polite offer, and soon found herself being escorted onto the dance floor. He was graceful, she'd give him that, but Hawke didn't care for the way his hands wandered over her back and around her ribcage as they waltzed across the floor.

"In Val Royeaux, at a ball such as this, we would all be wearing masks," he told her easily.

"Oh? And what would they be hiding behind those masks?" Hawke asked. She was running out of appropriately inane chatter, and couldn't suppress the sarcasm in her voice.

DuPuis chuckled low in his throat. "That, my lady, is not a topic of polite conversation."

"I've never been to Orlais," Hawke subtly changed the subject. "Though Mother has been begging Father for years to take us."

"Ah! Your presence would grace the courts," he replied. "Your father is Peacekeeper of Kirkwall, is he not?"

Hawke heard the not-so-subtle intensity in his voice as he asked about her father. Wanting nothing more to get away from him, she faked a slight stumble. "Oh my!" she exclaimed in her best simpering female voice. "I'm afraid there's something wrong with my shoe."

"Allow me to escort you to a seat," he said politely, though she could hear the undertone of impatience in his words.

As soon as DuPuis had deposited her in one of the many chairs lining the walls and left, Hawke returned to her feet, and quickly moved to the other side of the ballroom. Deciding one more glass of wine would do her no harm, Hawke signaled a waiter carrying a large tray covered in goblets, all filled with shimmering ruby colored liquid. The servant approached, lowering the tray so that she could easily reach the wine.

She'd just raised the glass to her lips when she caught Knight Captain Cullen's eye, where he stood near the buffet table, and gave him a commiserating smile. The Templar rolled his eyes, then beckoned for her to join him.

Why not? she thought. Cullen was one of the few people in the room who wasn't a total bore, unlike Messere Gascard DuPuis.

There was a crowd of people mulling around the edges of the dance, and Hawke felt her frustration rise as she attempted to maneuver her way through them. Kirkwall's upper classes had perfected rudeness down to a science, blithely ignoring each 'pardon me' she uttered.

Perhaps her guard was down, being where she was, or perhaps she'd had too much wine after all. Whatever the reason, Hawke never saw the attack coming. Her goblet had been lifted high above her head to keep from sloshing it all over the noble finery as she pressed through the crowd. It made her vulnerable - an easy target for the blade that suddenly plunged into her chest.

Hawke gasped.

Even as the pain blossomed under her breasts, Hawke whipped her head around in time to see the face of her assailant. For a brief second their eyes met and held, and she saw the malevolent intent in them glaring at her in satisfaction. And then, she was falling, falling…

The last thing she heard before darkness overtook her was Cullen's voice shouting, "Halt!"

⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼

Malcolm Hawke also heard Cullen's shout, followed by several piercing shrieks of horror. His hand automatically reached for his staff as his head pivoted toward the source of the commotion. The Knight Captain was trying to force his way through the mass of panicking nobles, and Malcolm's eyes scanned the room, searching.

There, bobbing among the sea of bodies was a white-haired man, trying to force his way to the exit. The two guardsmen who flanked the wide doors had drawn their swords, effectlively blocking the man's escape, at least he hoped so. Yet, Malcolm still began to calculate his success in hitting the fleeing man with a binding spell, until a new scream diverted his attention.

"Ambrosia!" his wife's voice echoed through the cavernous ballroom. Malcolm's gaze instantly snapped to his Leandra, kneeling on the floor, surrounded by a horde of white-faced nobles.

There, in a pool of gathering blood, lay his precious daughter.

"Amber." He hadn't known he'd said the word aloud until Viscount Dumar spoke at his side.

"Amber? What's happened?" Dumar asked in some alarm, and damned if the man didn't scoot behind Malcolm in an attempt to shield himself with Malcolm's body.

Malcolm, however, did not answer, but instead used his staff and the power of his voice to clear a path to his daughter. "Stand aside!" he commanded, and mercifully the way before him opened.

By the time he reached Leandra and Amber, a sobbing Bethany had joined them. Varric was also there standing guard, his crossbow drawn against any further threats. Malcolm ignored the fear worming its way up his spine, and his rapidly pounding heart, and with a clinical eye, inspected his daughter's wound. The hilt of a wicked looking dagger protruded from Amber's chest beneath her left breast, blood seeping from around its edges at an alarming rate.

"The healer," Malcolm told the dwarf, his voice hoarse. "Bring him to the estate."

Thankfully, Varric did not question him, but merely nodded, and with a last glance down at Hawke, took off in a near run.

"Malcolm, oh Malcolm," Leandra cried, her blood soaked hands clutching at him as he knelt next to her. "My baby. What have they done to my baby?"

"Carver!" Malcolm bellowed, and his son, pale-faced and shaking emerged from the crowd to join them.

Afraid to cause more damage by removing the knife, Malcolm focused his magic to stem the flow of blood, even as he told Carver, "Take your mother and sister home, son."

For once in his life, Carver did not whine or argue, but pulled his mother away from Hawke. Leandra continued to mewl Amber's name, but allowed her son to lead her away.

"Father?" questioned Bethany in a tremulous voice.

"Just go," Malcolm said, and with tears streaming down her face, Bethany followed after Carver and Leandra.

Sweat began to bead on his brow from his efforts, and Malcolm was glad when Cullen joined him not long after his family had departed. The Knight Captain's face was grim.

"I need you to carry her, Cullen," Malcolm said evenly, attempting to retain his composure despite the fear clawing at his chest. "I need to keep the wound in statis."

Cullen immediately acquiesced, and gently lifted Hawke into his arms. This time the crowd parted for them with ease.

"Her attacker?" Malcolm asked as they moved toward the doors.

"Even now being escorted to the dungeons by guardswoman Aveline," he replied succinctly.

"Good," was Malcolm's only reply. "Good."

Neither of them spoke another word as they made their way down the long stairway to the Hawke estate.

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Anders was bone weary. It had been a long, busy day at the clinic, made even more tiresome because his mind could hardly focus on his work.

He knew the Viscount's ball was tonight, and his wayward thoughts continually formed images of Hawke, beautiful and enticing, surrounded by nameless suitors, all better suited to court the Peacekeeper's daughter than an apostate mage living in the sewers.

Not that he wanted to court her himself. No. It was only that she deserved so much better than some mamby-pamby rich boy, who only wanted Hawke for her position and her gold.

Anders released a long sigh. Who was he trying to fool, anyway? Amber Hawke had gotten under his skin, even though he knew beyond doubt that getting involved with her was a very bad idea.

"A bit late for that now," he mumbled to himself as he placed the last vials of elfroot back into the cupboard.

Knowing it would lead only to disaster, however, did not stop either the tinge of jealousy in his heart, or the uncomfortable stirrings in his body. If only it weren't for…

BANG!

The clinic doors flew open, and in rushed a very harried looking dwarf.

"Let's go, Blondie," said Varric, impatience clear in every syllable.

"Varric, what the…" Anders began.

"No questions," he practically shouted. "Grab your healing shit and let's GO."

Anders tried several times as the ran through Kirkwall's streets to find out where they were going, but Varric remained silent, pushing them at a pace he could barely keep up with. How could the dwarf move so quickly on those short legs? By the time they reached the Hightown Market, Anders was out of breath and a sense of dread had built in his chest.

Why would Varric bring him to Hightown, of all places? Surely it couldn't be Hawke that needed him. What could possibly have happened to her at the Keep, surrounded by Templars and city guards?

Yet, soon they pushed through the door of the Hawke estate, only to be greeted by a Templar. In fact, it was Knight Captain Cullen who stood there with his arms folded over his chest.

Usually the sight of a Templar alone was enough to set Anders on edge, but the fact that this one was covered in blood made it even worse. He was given no more time to speculate, however, as Cullen immediately grabbed him by the arm and pulled him toward the stairs.

"Come with me," said Cullen, as if Anders had a choice, considering the iron grip on his arm.

Anders could hear sobbing as they ascended to the second floor. Female sobbing. He got his first glimpse of who could only have been Hawke's mother, wrapped in the arms of a pretty dark-haired girl outside of a closed door. Both of them looked up at him as Cullen dragged him passed.

"That's the healer?" he heard the younger woman say from behind him.

But Anders had no time or thought to give to the derision in her voice, because the door had opened. There on the bed, the Peacekeeper bowed over her, was Amber Hawke.

Malcolm looked up at them as they entered the bedchamber, his face lined and drawn. "Quickly," he said in anguish. "I'm losing her."


	11. Chapter 11

Malcolm's pale face was covered in a fine sheen of sweat as Anders approached the bed. It was clear that the effort of sustaining his magic for so long had taken a heavy toll on the Peacekeeper.

"Hurry, man," Malcolm ground out.

Anders knew he could not, however, allow Malcolm's exhausted fear to dictate his own actions. One glance at the knife hilt protruding from Hawke's chest was enough to let him know how dangerous the situation was. Another inch, maybe less, and the blade would have pierced her heart, he was sure, which made its removal all the more precarious.

Setting his bag of supplies on the end table, Anders spoke to Malcolm Hawke in calm, measured tones. "I need you to keep up the binding. Can you do that?"

Malcolm did not answer, but merely nodded once.

For Hawke's sake, Anders hoped he could. He removed several bottles of lyrium from his bag and glanced up at the door where the stiff figure of Cullen stood like a sentinel.

"I will need your help, as well," he told the Templar, and nodded toward the little row of potions.

"Understood," replied Cullen, and he came to stand between the table and the bed.

Anders first tore away the silken cloth of Hawke's gown, and he heard the Peacekeeper's grunt of disapproval when he pushed up her breastband, revealing the rounded flesh beneath. Despite himself, Anders felt his cheeks heat at the sight of her perfect breast. The healer in him was well acquainted with female anatomy, yet the man in him couldn't help that, even streaked with blood, he found her beautiful.

Clearing his mind of such wayward thoughts, Anders focused on building his magic within him. Usually, when he felt that hot push of stronger magic that had been merged into his being, he denied it. This time, however, he welcomed it - allowed it to come forth and prayed that neither of the two men would notice anything unusual.

With great care and precision, he sent the first tendrils of his magic along the blade itself, wrapping it around the cold steel in a white-blue cocoon. He saw immediately where its sharp edge had nicked an artery close to Hawke's heart, and even as Anders placed his hand on the hilt to remove it, he sealed the small cut through which Hawke's lifeblood had flowed.

Seconds later, the knife was in his hand and he murmured, "Cullen." A glass vial was pressed to his lips, and Anders swallowed the lyrium greedily, before telling Malcolm to release Hawke from the binding. The Peacekeeper staggered back, and may have collapsed to the floor, if not for Cullen's strong arms going around him like a vise. Anders forced himself to ignore the Templar's pleas for Malcolm to take some rest, as well as Malcolm's strong, swift denial.

Long into the night, Anders worked to repair the damage the dagger had caused, but he could do nothing to restore all the blood she'd lost from the devastating wound. Only time and rest would accomplish that, if she were lucky.

Just as the dawn's first rays of golden light shone through the bedroom window, Anders looked down at the fine, silvery line on her pale skin, the only trace left of her grievous hurt. A wave of dizziness overtook him when he attempted to stand, and he closed his eyes and rubbed at his temple, attempting to ease the pounding ache in his head. Intense healing work often brought on these headaches, at least ever since…

"Will she live?" Malcolm's hoarse voice interrupted his thoughts. He felt the Peacekeeper's hand on his arm, steadying him.

Anders forced his eyes open, and looked down at Hawke's ghostly white face. Would she live? For all their sake's he hoped so. Yet to ease her father's mind, Anders replied, "She is healed, but must be confined to bed for many days yet."

The words had barely left his lips when there was a commotion at the door, and Hawke's mother burst into the room, her red-rimmed eyes locking on her daughter's still form.

"Malcolm?" she queried beseechingly.

The Peacekeeper held out his hand to his wife, and she hurriedly came to him. Her sobs began anew as she looked down upon her daughter. This was no place for him now, intruding upon a family at such a time, and he began to gather his supplies. With bowed back, he moved toward the door, his head pounding harder with each step.

"Anders," Malcolm's stern voice stopped him, and he turned. "Thank you for… for my daughter's life."

Anders nodded his acceptance, and left as quickly as his weary bones would carry him.

It wasn't until he was back at the clinic, lying on his narrow cot, that the full weight of it hit him: Amber Hawke had nearly died, had nearly been taken from him before he'd even… before they had…

Unable to follow his thoughts to their not so logical conclusion, he drifted into an uneasy sleep.

⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼

Malcolm dropped into his chair and rubbed a hand across his tired eyes. He'd not slept, but come directly to the Gallows to meet the Grey Wardens and secure Karl's safety. The mage was now on his way to Montsimmard, Maker watch over him. Karl's fate was in other hands now, much to Malcolm's great relief. Yet that did not change the fact that the morning's most important task was still before him, and would prove far more draining than signing a few papers for a mage's transfer.

He sighed heavily, weighed with the guilt that he had not informed Anders of Karl's departure. He'd thought it best if the two did not see each other again, and wished to keep the Healer as far away from the Gallows as possible, to avoid further scrutiny. He could do much to protect the apostate from the Knight Commander, but the job would prove easier if he did not rub her nose in it at every turn.

If only he could steal just a few hours rest before leaving for the dungeons, to interrogate the villain who had tried to kill his dearest daughter.

Cullen arrived then to announce the skiff was ready, and Malcolm rose from his seat with all the vigor he could muster.

The Knight Captain gave him an appraising look, before asking, "Are you sure we should not postpone the interrogation, Peacekeeper?"

"No, Cullen," replied Malcolm. "What best done is soon begun, as they say."

The trip across the bay was a blur, and Malcolm thought he may have actually dozed off at one point, but soon they were met at the docks by a contingent of city guards, who escorted them to the Keep.

They had no more than passed through the wide doors, when a troubled looking Viscount Dumar hurriedly approached them.

"What is it, Marlowe?" Malcolm asked.

"Bad news, I'm afraid," the viscount replied, nervously rubbing a hand over his chin. "The prisoner is... dead."

A string of curses threatened to erupt from his mouth, but Malcolm took a deep, steadying breath and simply said, "Take me to the body."

⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼

Throughout the long day, Hawke had received a steady flow of visitors, despite her mother's protests.

"But you must rest, my darling," Leandra had entreated. "Look at you, you are weak as a kitten."

And she had been. Still was, in fact. Hawke could barely lift her hand from the covers, and her voice was no more than a whisper, but she had refused to drink the healing draughts Leandra pressed upon her unless she was allowed to see her friends.

One at a time, her mother had escorted them in, a pinched look on her face. Hawke could care less what Leandra thought of her choice in companions. What her mother could not know was that seeing the love and concern in their eyes did much to dispel the expression of another set of eyes. Black eyes, filled with a venomous hatred Hawke had never before experienced in all her days. They'd filled her fevered dreams, and haunted her even into her waking. Who was he? What had caused him to direct such loathing upon her - enough to want to kill her?

Fortunately, she'd not been left alone with her thoughts. Varric had been her first visitor, followed by Isabela, Fenris and even guardswoman Aveline. Hawke glanced at the bouquet of pink rosebuds Varric had brought to her, and wished she had the strength to pluck one from the vase and bring it to her nose and inhale the sweet scent.

She sighed, alone in her room now, pining for the one person she had not seen this entire, long day.

Anders.

Without him, Hawke knew she would be dead now, wandering the paths of the Fade, separated from everyone she held dear. She owed him everything, and yet… and yet she was also angry that the Healer had not even bothered to check in on his charge. More than anything, she wanted to get up from this blasted bed and march to Darktown to give him a piece of her mind. How dare he neglect her so?

There was a soft knock at the door, and a moment later Leandra escorted the object of her thoughts into the room.

Immediately, all of her peevish thoughts vanished as she got her first look at his face. She'd never seen anyone look so exhausted. Half moons of darkness shadowed the skin under his eyes, and the lines around his mouth stood out starkly against his pale skin.

"You look worse than me," Hawke teased softly as he approached the bed.

"I'll just leave you with the Healer, Ambrosia dear," Leandra said, and shut the door behind her.

Anders said nothing, but procured a blue vial from his robes and swiftly downed its contents. Once finished, he pulled the blanket away from her and settled his hands on her ribcage beneath her breasts. The wash of healing magic that filled her was ten times better than the potions that had been pressed on her all day, and for the first time since she'd awakened, she felt some of her vitality return.

"Anders," Hawke whispered. He looked on the verge of collapse. "Sit down." And she had to admit that she was pleased when her hand obeyed her command and patted the blanket beside her.

Anders sank gratefully to the edge of the bed. "You're awake sooner than I thought you'd be," he said wearily.

She didn't tell him she'd forced herself to stay awake so to avoid the nightmares of those soulless, black eyes, but instead said, "You can't keep a Hawke down, you must know that."

Anders shook his head, and the hint of a smile curved his lips. "You will stay down, in this bed, for the duration of the week," he ordered, his stern voice in opposition to his soft expression.

Hawke did not bother to argue, because she had no intention of staying abed for a week. Instead she took his hand and said, "Thank you, Anders."

She was gratified when his fingers slid through hers, and held her hand tightly. "Amber, I…" He hesitated, and she held her breath, waiting for what he would say, he sounded so serious.

In the end, however, he only said, "You're welcome."

⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼

"If you don't mind my saying so, you need to go home and rest," Varric told the Peacekeeper as he settled into the chair in front of Malcolm's desk.

"Soon enough, my good dwarf," Malcolm replied. "First there is a matter of some urgency we must discuss."

Varric felt a thrill of fear run through him, as thoughts of his Rosebud taking a turn for the worse sprang to his mind. "Amber?" he asked.

"She is fine," he replied. "I've had hourly reports, and have been told she continues to gain strength."

Varric blew a long breath through his teeth. "Then what?" he asked. "What did that bastard have to say for himself?"

"Amber's attacker is dead," Malcolm said. "By his own hand. He was searched, of course, but the guards missed a hidden knife, with which he managed to slice through his own throat."

Varric whistled. "So, you don't know who he was? Or why…"

Malcolm pushed a torn piece of paper across the desk, and Varric took it up to inspect it. It appeared to be the bottom of a letter, with only the fragment of a sentence left at the bottom.

_…some urgency, so I trust that you will carry out your orders, regardless of the consequence."_

_~Q_

"Who's Q?" Varric asked as he handed the paper fragment back to Malcolm.

"I do not know, thought I intend to find out," Malcolm said. "More importantly, I think you know what I shall say next."

Varric did know. It was in Malcolm's eyes, as clear as a bell. "You want Amber out of the city," he said.

"Yes," said the Peacekeeper. "You will finalize your plans, and make sure you are ready to depart on this expedition of yours, the moment my daughter is well."

"Of course," Varric agreed. "But what will you do?"

The steel in Malcolm's eyes took Varric aback. He'd never seen the Peacekeeper look quite so, well, deadly.

"I believe you have things to do?" Malcolm asked in a voice filled with barely restrained rage.

Varric quickly stood, and with a slight bow, left the Peacekeeper's office. Even though he was a dwarf, and therefore in no danger from the Templars, he didn't like being in the Gallows. He didn't care much for riding in boats either, but what could he do? There was no way he would give up the envious position of having such a close tie with the Peacekeeper of Kirkwall over such paltry things, but that didn't mean he had to enjoy it.

By the time Varric reached the Dwarven Merchant's Guild, he'd regained his good humor and was whistling softly to himself. His Rosebud would recover, and that meant all was right with the world, no matter what else was happening.

Next stop was to visit those two traveling merchants who had lately been hanging about the square. He'd heard their names, but couldn't bring them to mind at the moment.

As he stopped in front of their small cart, he didn't have the chance to ask before the older of the two stuck out his and said, "Bodahn Feddic, at your service."

 


	12. Chapter 12

After a productive, if confusing, meeting with Bodhan and his enchanter son, Sandal, Varric made a few more stops to grease the palms of the expedition's other suppliers to ensure timely delivery of their goods. Confident that they'd be ready to leave as soon as Rosebud was up to it, he set off back toward Lowtown, already anticipating a night filled with pints and Wicked Grace.

He needed the distraction. Because left to himself, he'd have to think about the danger they were presently in, and that would never do. Sure, getting Rosebud out of Kirkwall solved one problem, but taking her into the Deep Roads created a whole new set of dangers to deal with. Some of them bloodthirsty, with sharp teeth and sharper weapons. Never mind the dark, cramped tunnels filled with nugshit, and no fresh air or sunlight for Maker knew how long.

Varric had no fascination for "the stone," and although he'd never admit it, was a bit claustrophobic.

Still, his fondness for gold outweighed his fear of the dark, and he'd arranged for a barrel of ale to be among their provisions as a consolation. So, all in all, he couldn't complain.

It was full dark by the time he walked through the doors of the Hanged Man, and who should be stumbling out into the street at that very moment?

"Junior," called Varric. "Lose all your coin so early?"

Carver glared at him. "Corff cut me off." He belched loudly then slurred, "Heading to the Rose."

Varric watched him weave down the street, and almost went after him. With all that was going on, it wasn't really safe for the boy to be wandering around on his own, drunk in the dark. He'd just taken a step in Carver's direction when he noticed a city guard appear from the shadows and follow Carver at a discreet distant. Malcolm's work, he was sure.

Shrugging off his concerns, he entered the bar, whistling once again.

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There was another shadowy figure, unseen by Varric, who followed the guardsman who was following Carver. Not his usual repartee, but how could he possibly have denied her request?

"Fenris," she'd said, her pale skin flushed with fever and lingering pain from the knife-wound to her chest. "I'm worried about Carver while I'm confined to this blasted bed." Her lips curved into a weak smile he found impossible to resist. "I was wondering if you would, you know, sort of keep an eye on him for me."

Even if he had not been so fond of her, and never mind that he found her friendship to be quite valuable - he owed her a debt he could never truly repay. She'd set him free, gave him a home, a purpose, a reason to live despite his past and the constant, painful thrum of lyrium humming through his skin. His former master was dead, and he was the proud owner of a respectable Hightown mansion. Well, at least it was in the process of becoming respectable, he thought with a wry smile.

He found it extremely interesting to be the hunter instead of the hunted. It gave him a thrill he had not quite expected, considering the circumstances. Carver Hawke was no more than a pathetic drunk, wasting his life in debauchery and whores. Fenris had no respect for the man, and found it quite difficult to believe he was related to Amber Hawke at all.

From a distance, Fenris watched as Carver staggered, waved his arms about, and then fell crashing into a pile of crates. He stifled the snort that threatened to disrupt the night air, and instead watched to see if the stupid boy would regain his feet. What he saw next nearly shocked the usually composed elf.

The soft slink of metal sounded, just before Fenris saw the guardsman approaching Carver with his blade drawn. His first thought was that the man must have seen some threat to Carver that he himself had missed. But no, that wasn't the case. He heard the man speak just as his sword began to lift into the air.

"Sorry bastard," he said. "Say your prayers, little man."

Carver sputtered, "Wait, what… what are you…"

And then the whole scene erupted in a blaze of fury and light. Fenris was fast. And deadly. And the man was lying on the ground, minus the beating heart that was now in the elf's hand, before Carver could say anymore, or the guard could bring his sword down in a killing blow.

Slowly, Fenris knelt before Carver, a grim smile on his face and the heart held directly before the wide-eyed man still laying in a pile of broken crates.

"Look at that," Fenris said in mock wonder. "It still beats."

Carver turned his head and began vomiting into the street. For long moments there were only the sounds of retching and belly-deep moans, but Fenris patiently waited, the dying heart still cradled in his palm.

When at last Carver looked up at him, some of the liquor-induced haze was gone from his eyes.

"This should have been you," Fenris said gesturing to the dead guardsman. "If not for your sister's concern, it would have been." He tossed the now still heart onto the cobbled stones. "The same sister who lay dying on the ballroom floor while you did nothing."

Carver's expression turned sullen. "What do you know about it, elf?" he slurred.

Fenris grabbed Carver by the shirt, and lifted him until their faces were mere inches apart. The stench of alcohol turned his stomach. "I know a great deal, human," he replied, his voice low and gravely. "I know that you squander your privilege and spit in the face of your family." He released Carver with a push, sending him sprawling back into his own vomit. "You disgust me."

Carver tried and failed to regain his feet, the bile surrounding him too slippery to gain purchase. With a grunt of disapproval, Fenris grabbed him by the collar, forcing him up.

"For Amber's sake, I will ensure you get home safely," he said, leading Carver in the direction of the Hawke estate. "Left to me, you'd choke on your own sick."

This time Carver didn't even attempt to reply, he simply allowed the elf to guide him home like a puppet on a string.

⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼

Hawke stood in the doorway to Malcolm's office, shifting her weight in silent apprehension. Normally there was never a hesitant bone in her body when wanting to talk to her father, but this time was different. Telling him she wanted to join Varric's expedition, especially now after the recent attack she'd endured, was not going to be an easy task.

"Do you plan on standing there all evening?" Malcolm asked without looking up from the parchments scattering his desk.

She laughed, already feeling slightly at ease in response to his demeanor. "Maybe?" Hawke replied. "All the easier to run if you get cross with me."

Malcolm dropped his quill and met her gaze. "When have I ever been cross?" he asked, feigning a hurt expression.

Hawke entered his office and settled into the chair in front of his desk. "That time I cut Bethany's hair and blamed Carver. Or the day I nearly burned the estate down bringing candles into my blanket fort. Dumping dirt on Countess Chavlon after she said she needed a mud bath…"

Malcolm waved his hand. "Extenuating circumstances," he said with a smile. "And all when you were quite young. Though I suspect you get into just as much trouble now, but have learned how to hide it from me."

"Hide anything from the mighty Peacekeeper of Kirkwall?" Hawke scoffed. "Messere, you give me too much credit!"

"I trust you Amber," Malcolm said with sincerity, changing the tone of their usual light banter. "And I trust you would never put yourself into a situation you couldn't handle, and if you did, you would come to me."

She shifted uncomfortably under the guilt that crept into her heart, but dismissed it quickly, focusing on the task at hand. "Of course Father," Hawke replied. "And I'm hoping that trust continues, with what I am about to ask of you."

Malcolm leaned back in his chair and gave her his full attention. "Out with it then," he said.

"Varric's expedition," she told him, jumping right to it. "I want to go. And before you say no, know that I have thought this through. Varric has a full compliment of mercenaries and supplies and detailed maps of the area we'll be heading into. Anders is coming, so we'll have a healer. Fenris is also going, so we have more than enough adequate protection. I want to get out of Kirkwall, explore something new and exciting, and it took a lot to get Varric to agree to let me go so I'd really appreciate it if I could have your blessing." She was nearly breathless by the time she'd finished.

"You have it," Malcolm told her.

"But you haven't even thought…" Hawke began, prepared for his rejection. "Wait, what? I can go?"

Malcolm nodded. "Two conditions however," he said. "One, you see Anders and make certain you are entirely healed for this kind of strenuous activity."

"And the second?" Hawke asked with hopeful eyes.

Malcolm smiled. "You tell your mother."

Hawke slumped in her seat. "I knew that was too easy," she replied, dread coming over her at the thought of convincing the ever prim and proper Leandra Hawke to let her crawl through the dirty Deep Roads. Another thought struck her and she peered up at him. "Just why was this so easy, anyway? I expected you to put up more of a fight on this. Not that I'm not grateful…"

"You've earned a trip away from the city," Malcolm explained. "Between what happened at the Ball, your mother forcing suitors down your throat, the constant vigil you hold over your brother's behavior… Amber, this is the first time in years you have asked for something because you wished for it. And if it is within my power to give it to you, I shall do so without hesitation."

Hawke stood and walked over to her father, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Thank you," she whispered. "And I promise to bring you back something special."

"All I have need of is your safe return," Malcolm said as he returned her embrace. "Now get out of here. Your bedrest restriction is over, and I'm sure you're dying to get to the Hanged Man and share the news."

She kissed him on the cheek before releasing him. "You know me so well Father," she said with a smile. "Thank you!" she said again as she skipped from his office.

Malcolm watched her leave, shaking his head at her excitable energy. His expression turned grim as he turned his attention to his desk drawer, opened it, and retrieved an item wrapped in black velvet. Placing it on his desk, he pulled back the layers of cloth to reveal a dagger stained with dried blood. His daughter's blood. Anger boiled within him as his hand moved along the jagged blade to the braided hilt. Whoever dared to harm his daughter would pay, he vowed, in the most slow and painful way possible.

⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼

True to his word, Hawke found her way through Darktown without so much as a glance in her direction. Whatever power Anders held over the residents of the lower district was grand to command such obedience and respect. How long had he actually been in the city, she wondered, to earn such loyalty and devotion? Her father may have the ear of every noble in Hightown, but if an ambassador were to be named for Darktown, it would be Anders.

She came upon a crowd outside his clinic; mothers with their sick children, workers with job site injuries, and even a familiar face. "Isabela?" Hawke questioned as she approached the rogue.

"Well look at you, all out and about in the world," Isabela said, planting a kiss on Hawke's cheek.

"Are you alright?" Hawke asked with concern. "What are you doing here?"

"Nothing my weekly poultice can't cure," Isabela said with a wink. "I may have gotten in over my head last night with a few sailors, and woke up with this incredible itch…"

"Enough said," Hawke cut her off with a grin. "Weekly you say? Is it always this busy down here?"

Isabela nodded. "Word spreads fast when there's a rogue healer in town that'll fix your wounds, no questions asked. Your father may have made it a point to have the mages in the Gallows available for healing, but unless you have some fancy title in front of your name, admittance to see one doesn't come cheap."

Hawke raised a brow. "The templars are charging for the mages services?"

"From those that can't afford it," Isabela told her. "Good business sense if you think about it, probably pays for all their fancy armor."

"My father needs to know about this," Hawke said. "Those mages were supposed to be available to everyone in Kirkwall."

"Do with the information what you will, sweet thing," Isabela said, stepping forward as the line moved. "I prefer it down here anyway, with the real people of Kirkwall. The dirt and grit of Darktown is almost as homey as the open seas. Plus, you never know when a good duel will start over a crumb of bread or a jigger of whiskey."

It was another hour before it was Isabela's turn to be seen. Hawke waited patiently while Isabela was being attended to; sure they were close, but the last thing Hawke wanted to hear about was Isabela's exploits with the seedy sort who resided at the docks. Not that she minded, that's who Isabela was, and she had always admired the woman for her free spirit. She couldn't help but laugh when Isabela exited the clinic a few minutes later, vials in hand, and winked at her before sashaying her way toward the lift to Lowtown.

As Hawke entered the clinic, she saw Anders huddled over his desk, crumpling a parchment he had just read. "Bad news?" she asked.

"I received word this morning that Karl is safely out of the city," Anders said without meeting her gaze.

"Well that's good news, isn't it?" Hawke asked.

Anders nodded as he turned toward her "Yes. Though I would've liked to have seen him before he left."

Hawke hopped up onto the table. "I'm sorry Anders," she said sincerely. "If it were possible, I'm certain my father would have found a way. It was probably best to get Karl out of Kirkwall as swiftly as possible, and not have you seen with him."

"I suppose you're right," Anders said as he walked toward the table. "You didn't have to wait you know."

Hawke shrugged. "I didn't mind. There were others who needed your help far more than I."

Anders grinned. "Isabela?" he said, raising his brow.

"No comment," Hawke laughed.

"Alright then, let's see how you're doing," he said as he gestured for her to lay down. Before doing so, Hawke lifted her shirt over her head and tossed it on the chair beside the table, leaving her only in her breastband and trousers. "What are you doing?" Anders asked, a flush gracing his cheeks.

Hawke smiled. "Saving you the awkward moment of having to lift my shirt to inspect the wound," she said, laying down. "I must admit," she added, changing the subject for his benefit, "you've done a pretty good job of it. I can't even tell I was stabbed only a week ago."

Anders tried to ignore the flashback of seeing her covered in blood, hearing her father's desperate pleas to save her, the sound of her mother and sister sniffling in the distance. Though her wound was all but erased, the memory remained, and he took a moment to compose himself before approaching her. Seeing her soft skin exposed, however, did little to help his composure. The rise and fall of her chest, the way her breasts were perfectly contained within that breastband…

He cleared his throat to steady himself and walked around the table to her left side. She wasn't wrong; the wound was completely healed, and only the slightest change in the color of her flesh where the dagger had protruded remained. In time, he was sure that would dissipate as well. Reaching for his magic, Anders placed his hands just below her breasts, and searched for any remaining damage within, especially surrounding her now rapidly beating heart. He ignored that, too, keeping the healer, not the man, in charge. His eyes wandered to the other marks on her skin, old wounds never healed properly, and again he wondered just how she had received them.

A soft giggle from her pulled him from his thoughts and he pulled back, eyeing her curiously. "What?" he asked.

"Your robes were tickling my stomach," Hawke said, supporting herself on her elbows. "Has no one else complained about them?"

"No," he said more harshly than he intended. "Most are just grateful to be free of whatever ails them."

"And I am," Hawke said as she moved off the table. "Grateful that is. Truly." She walked toward him and leaned upward to kiss him on the cheek, fully aware her chest was grazing his. "What you did for me I can never repay, but know I will do my damndest to try."

Anders looked down at her, lost in the beauty of her eyes. Without thinking, he brought his hand to her face, caressing her cheekbone with his thumb. "I was terrified for you," he told her, instantly hating himself for the admission of vulnerability. Against his better judgement, however, he continued. "To think I could've lost you before…"

"Before what?" she whispered, breath caught in her throat.

He saw the anticipation in her eyes. The way they searched his, how she inched closer to him and held onto his forearm. It would be so easy to lean in, press his lips to hers, fulfill the fantasy he had of tasting her…

Anders pulled back suddenly, realization of what he was about to do hitting him hard in the chest. To get involved with her, admit his feelings... the Peacekeepers daughter no less! He couldn't risk it, wouldn't allow himself to. It wasn't safe, for her, for him. He turned his back on her. "You should put on your shirt before you catch a chill," he said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

He heard her shuffling behind him, and he prayed she'd leave quickly before he did something they both could never come back from. "So, Healer, do I have a clean bill of health then?"

"Yes," Anders said roughly, fighting the urge to grab her and kiss her.

"That's good," she said, circling him and forcing him to look at her. "Then the Deep Roads awaits us both." She whistled as she left the clinic.

The Deep Roads. Where he had agreed to go. With her. Days underground within a confined space. Nowhere to run or hide. Anders sighed, leaning on the table for support. He was in over his head; Ambrosia Hawke would be the death of him.


	13. Chapter 13

Fenris grunted under the weight of supporting Carver as he hesitantly knocked on the Hawke's ornate door. It would have been his preference to leave the drunken boy at the doorstep and turn on his heel, but his promise to Amber remained strong in his mind. The younger sibling was hardly worth the effort, but after dragging him all the way home from Lowtown, he thought it best to see his promise through.

Much to his relief, it was Malcolm who answered the door. His few interactions with Leandra Hawke had left a bad taste in his mouth, the way she looked down at him, or pretended he wasn't even there. Fenris couldn't be certain if it was the lyrium branding that put her off, or his being an elf, but whenever he'd been forced to interact with Leandra, he'd always left feeling less of a man after being in her presence. Malcolm, however, never failed to treat him with respect and kindness, and despite that he was a mage, Fenris found he'd taken a liking to the eldest Hawke.

Malcolm sighed and shook his head when he saw his son, barely standing on his own two feet as he held on to Fenris. "I believe this belongs to you," Fenris said, passing Carver off to his father.

"If I said no, would you take him back to whatever hole you found him in?" Malcolm asked, supporting Carver as they entered the estate.

"I would not recommend it," Fenris replied. He waited to confirm the women of the house were out of earshot before he continued. "An attempt was made on his life by a member of the city guard. It was only by your daughter's wishes that I was following him and managed to stave off the attack."

Malcolm didn't respond as he moved toward the stairs with his son. Fenris helped the Peacekeeper manage the boy's weight up the steps, while Carver babbled incoherently about beating hearts and flashes of light. It wasn't until Malcolm had placed Carver on the bed that he noticed the blood spatters on his arm. "Was he injured?" he asked, turning to Fenris, and then saw the same crimson liquid on Fenris' hand. "Were you?"

"His attacker's misfortune," Fenris replied. "We were both unharmed."

Malcolm nodded. "A moment please, and then we will discuss this further downstairs." Fenris watched as Malcolm stripped Carver of the bloody clothes and threw them in the corner of the room. Then Malcolm turned to Fenris, offering him a warning. "Do not be alarmed," he said, as he rolled up the sleeves of his robe and began to chant in a language Fenris did not recognize.

Shadows seemed to crawl up the wall as Malcolm's power grew. A deep thrumming filled the room, and the single candle extinguished as Malcolm lifted his arms over his son's form on the bed. The lyrium in Fenris' skin began to burn, reminding him all too much of the rituals Danarius would perform in the caverns beneath his estate. The images of screaming slaves and ripping flesh caused him to take a step back, an arm raising to cover his eyes.

It was then something changed. A subtle shift in the Peacekeeper's magic, and the elf's building panic began to ease. A calm and serene aura enveloped the room, and a slow blue light began to crawl along Carver's body. It surrounded him like a comforting blanket, and emanated a soft sound, almost like the wind among the high tops of the trees.

Fenris felt his body relax, almost against his will. He'd never before seen Malcolm use his magic - just as powerful as his former master's to be sure, but in the end, nothing like Danarius at all. As they exited Carver's room, Malcolm placed his hand on Fenris' shoulder. "I hope that wasn't too uncomfortable for you."

Fenris was taken aback by his kindness. "It has been some time since I have been in the presence of such power," he admitted.

Malcolm led them to his office. "I don't normally perform such magics on my children," he said. "Better to have him quieted for the night though, rather than wake my wife and daughter with his ramblings. What was this about hearts he was saying?"

Fenris smirked. "One heart, torn from the attacker's chest. I thought it better to end things quickly rather than an open sword fight in the middle of Lowtown."

"I appreciate your discretion," Malcolm said sardonically.

"Am I to assume your sudden willingness for Amber to go to the Deep Roads is a result of the recent threats to your family?" Fenris asked. "One attack could be chance. Two is not coincidence."

Malcolm sighed. "All the more reason to keep this incident quiet," he told Fenris. "And yes, I want Amber out of Kirkwall for reasons that are plainly obvious. Your cooperation in keeping her safe would be appreciated, as well as your silence. I've no wish to alarm my daughter, and if she were aware of this attack, she would insist on remaining in the city."

Fenris nodded. "You have my word. If you have further need of me, I am at your disposal."

* * *

The next morning, Leandra watched with pride as her daughter descended the stairway. So beautiful and poised, with her dark hair shining and her lips a perfect pout, she thought Bethany looked regal enough to be a queen. Such a shame that the Free Marches weren't more like Orlais or Ferelden, where her perfect daughter could surely have risen to the highest of stations. Such a contrast to her two other children, she thought, shaking her head. Carver was a fine young man, but she was becoming more and more concerned about his late hours and lack of motivation to insinuate himself in Kirkwall society. And Amber, well, her eldest was such a social disaster. Leandra had nearly given up hope that she would ever settle down and take up her rightful place. It was almost a relief that she'd be going off with Varric to... someplace or other. She held the noble dwarf in high regard, despite the fact his family had been exiled.

She felt a twinge of momentary guilt as an image of Ambrosia bleeding on the ballroom floor flashed through her mind, but she swiftly pushed it away. She would never admit it to anyone, but once her fear that Ambrosia might die had passed, she'd been rather ashamed of the spectacle the girl had caused. Really, with those other ruffians she associated with, it was no wonder…

"Good morning, Mother," Bethany said as she air-kissed Leandra's cheek.

"Good morning, my darling," replied Leandra. "I have breakfast ready for us." She motioned for Bethany to proceed her into the dining room.

The frown that appear on Bethany's face was certainly caused by this reminder of their lack of servants. Lately, Leandra had been reconsidering her stubborn stance on the matter, but she so disliked the idea of having strangers in their home. She sighed. A decision for another day. This morning, there was something much more pressing on her mind.

Once they were sitting at the table, Leandra broached her favorite subject. "I happened to see Saemus Dumar yesterday," she said cheerfully. "I was having tea with Lady de Launcet, and he was playing chess with that odd son of hers, Emile." She still shivered at the thought that she'd walked through Hightown's streets alone, even if in broad daylight. But she could not allow the current situation to damage her position.

Bethany gave a quite unlady-like snort, causing her mother to look up sharply. "What? Everyone knows Emile is a mage," Bethany said. "They keep him locked away in that mansion so the Templars won't take him."

"Yes, well," Leandra said, deciding to let the comment pass. "Saemus was looking very handsome. I do wish you'd come with me, dearest."

Leandra could of sworn she saw a slight flush on her daughter's cheeks before she replied, "You know how I detest Fifi and Babette."

Leandra sighed. "Simpering, silly girls, to be sure. Yet still, you must make the best of every opportunity to be in the right company."

"I wish the  _right company_  was a bit more entertaining," she said, almost absently, but then a sly smile curved her pretty lips. "Perhaps you should invite the Viscount and his son to dinner, ma mère."

Leandra's eyes brightened. "Of course, an excellent idea," she began, but a loud crash from upstairs interrupted her effusions.

"Carver," Bethany groaned.

"What is it now?" Leandra asked, rising from her seat. Once Ambrosia was gone off on Varric's expedition, Carver would become more and more of  _her_ problem to deal with. She wasn't proud of the fact she'd left the troubles of her son to her eldest daughter, but Ambrosia had more patience than she did for the boy's antics.

Bethany only shrugged and continued nibbling on a scone.

With a heavy sigh, Leandra went to see about her son.

* * *

Malcolm stormed into Aveline's office, his black robes flowing freely behind him. At the sound of her door being thrown open and hitting the wall behind it, Aveline leapt from her chair, the reports she'd been attending to scattering to the floor. "Peacekeeper!" she stuttered, face turning as red as her hair. "To what do I owe the…"

"Do not bother with pleasantries," Malcolm said, towering over the woman. "This is not a social visit."

"I would never assume…"

"Enough," he bellowed. "You will sit down and you will hear me, and hear me well." He paced the small office, fury and anger fueling his words. "You were given the title of Acting Guard Captain while Jeven attended to business in Starkhaven. By me, I'll remind you. And within the small amount of time you've held this position, my daughter was attacked, and now my son! By a member of your guard!" Malcolm turned toward her, placing his hands on her desk. "Tell me,  _Acting Guard Captain_ , what is being done about this?"

Aveline stood a little straighter as she addressed the Peacekeeper's concerns. "We have been speaking with anyone associated with Guardsman Provost and have searched his belongings. So far…"

"So far you have nothing," Malcolm snarled. "Perhaps if you weren't so busy fucking your subordinates, you'd have some answers for me." He retrieved two weapons he held under his robes and brought them down heavily on her desk. "The dagger that impaled my daughter. And the sword which nearly killed my son. You have until sundown tomorrow to bring me some answers, or my chat with your husband upon his return will be the least of your concerns."

She waited until he left her office before slumping into her chair. Heart racing and hands shaking, she lifted the dagger still covered with the dried blood of the Peacekeeper's daughter. Aveline had no doubt Malcolm would make good on his threats, and so she ignored the scattered reports on the floor and began studying the weapons.

* * *

Carver looked up as his mother entered the room. "Blasted chair," he mumbled. "Stop moving the furniture around while I'm out."

"Really, Carver," his mother said, her arms crossed over her ample bosom. "This has to stop."

"What are you going on about now?" he whined, feigning ignorance. He rose from the floor, rubbing at his thigh. He'd never seen quite that expression on his mother's face before.

"This room smells like a brewery," she said, taking a step toward him. "And you look like one of those refugees I see slinking around the market, begging for food."

Carver tried to think of something to say, but for once couldn't come up with a proper excuse to pacify his mother. His head hurt, and his stomach was roiling and he couldn't quite get the image of that bloody beating heart out of his mind.

"If you bring any more disgrace upon this family…" Leandra began in a low voice, as if she were afraid someone might hear her admit there was a problem at all. There was anger in her voice, but also tears welling in her eyes. "I… I don't know what I'll do!" She practically ran from the room, leaving him no chance to respond.

Carver slumped back onto his bed and brought his hands to his aching head. How had he made such a mess of things? And the worst part was, he'd be dead right now if it were for that stupid elf rescuing him from that crazed guardsman. Thank the Maker his mother didn't know about that. At least, he hoped Father hadn't said anything to her… surely not.

Andraste's ass, what was he going to do? He really needed to get his life under control. Yet, the only answer that came to his bleary mind was to find himself a bottle of Butterbile and make it all go away.

* * *

Cullen fell into step with Malcolm as he exited the Keep. It was impossible not to overhear the entire conversation he'd had with Aveline, and so Cullen chose to remain silent as they made their way through Hightown to the Hawke estate. It wasn't until Malcolm was within the safety of his own office that he released a long held breath, steadying himself from the anger he'd just displayed.

Aware that his family was at home and they may be overheard, Malcolm waved his arm, casting a silencing spell over the door before speaking. "Not my finest moment," he commented, gesturing for Cullen to have a seat.

"You were not without cause," Cullen reminded him. "Two attacks within the week would shake any father, even a Peacekeeper."

Malcolm scoffed at the title. "Peacekeeper," he repeated. "Yelling at women who are not responsible. Sleeping with another woman who's not his wife, in the name of protecting family, and yet they are still in danger at every turn." He ran his hand through his hair, shaking his head in disbelief. "How long until they succeed Cullen? Until all that I have done to save them is undone?"

Cullen hated to see the man like this. Fear was something he rarely saw in Malcolm, and it left him feeling helpless in assisting his mentor. "Amber is safe, is she not?" Cullen offered.

"As of tomorrow. But are the Deep Roads really safer than Kirkwall?" Malcolm asked before sighing. "I wish I knew. I believe she will be, anyway. That elf, Fenris, who saved my son, will be with her. As will Anders. Varric and the others have all been made aware of the situation." He stood and began pacing his office. "With your watchful eye on Bethany, and Leandra terrified to leave the house, my only remaining concern is Carver. Though I believe after last night, the boy may finally be taking this threat seriously."

"We will get to the bottom of this," Cullen assured him. "I will follow up with Aveline later today, and have a few of my men look into this Guard Provost as well. My recommendation would be for you to remain here, though I doubt you'll listen to reason."

"Have I ever?" Malcolm asked.

"And you wonder why your children are so stubborn?" Cullen dared.

Malcolm laughed. "I do indeed. But remaining here is out of the question. I am to meet with Meredith later this evening, and no excuse will pacify her I'm afraid. "

Cullen shifted uncomfortably in his chair at the mention of his commander. "If I may ask," he began, "is that situation really worth the trouble?"

Another sigh escaped his lips before Malcolm replied. "It allows my children the freedom to walk the streets of Kirkwall. There was a time, before they were born, that Leandra and I had considered fleeing the city to make a better life for them. Me, an apostate, you can only imagine how different things were back then. But the thought of raising my children in hiding, pretending to be anything other than what I am, I just couldn't do it. We decided to remain, and try to turn this city into a place our children could call home. I will not shatter that for them, and if it means a few awkward dalliances with the Knight-Commander, then so be it."

"A true Peacekeeper," Cullen commented, admiration continuing to grow for the man before him. "And Kirkwall has only benefited from your continued presence."

"Thank you Cullen," Malcolm said as he opened the door and motioned for the Templar to proceed him through. "Let us hope the rest of the city agrees with your sentiment, and we can put this mess behind us quickly."

Cullen stepped into the hallway, his attention still on Malcolm, so he didn't notice the running figure heading toward him.

"Oomph," he grunted as Bethany collided into him. They both would have slammed to the floor if his quick reflexes hadn't caught her. Unfortunately, his hands ended up in a somewhat impolite position.

"Ser Cullen, I'm so sorry!," exclaimed Bethany, breathlessly.

"It's.. I mean… It's fine," Cullen said, quickly removing his offending hands and crossing them across his chest.

Bethany only giggled, but when Cullen glanced at the Peacekeeper, his knowing look was quite disturbing.

* * *

The Knight Commander could hear the low voices of the Peacekeeper and his favorite pet as they walked down the hall toward his office... _her office_  in her mind… causing her blood to boil. Samson turned, about to make a snide comment, she guessed, but she placed a finger over his lips and shook her head. All this time she'd been sleeping with Malcolm, hoping to wrap him around her little finger, wanting nothing more than to attach some proverbial strings to the man - strings that she, herself, would then pull.

All this time, and to no avail. Malcolm kept his own council, and only seemed to trust his spoiled daughter and that simpering Templar, Cullen. Meredith sighed. At least the sex was good.

No longer hearing their footsteps in the hallway outside her office, she turned back to Samson. "Do you understand your orders?" she asked him silkily.

"Yes, ma'am," he replied with a sly grin. "Best orders I've had in a long time."

"Repeat them to me," she said in the same tone.

"I'm to follow Mistress Hawke and her party into the Deep Roads. Hire whoever I need to get the job done. Find whatever it is the Peacekeeper wants down there, get it, and bring it back to you."

"And?" she prompted.

"And," he said, now grinning broadly, "make sure Amber Hawke doesn't return to Kirkwall."

"Excellent," she said, and took a step closer to the Templar. "I don't know what I'd do without you, Samson. You certainly know how to please your commander."

"That I do," Samson agreed, reaching out and pulling her close to him. "How about a little  _pleasing_ now?'

In reply, Meredith took Samson's head in her hands and brought her lips to his, forcing his mouth open with the pads of her thumbs. How she loved his subordinate role, taking what she wanted, demanding what she needed. So different from Malcolm, and so much more… satisfying.

It would be hours yet before Malcolm arrived. "Lock the door," she said, and Samson complied.


	14. Chapter 14

The market square was bustling with activity. Mercenaries were loading up carts with gear for the expedition. Merchants were pushing their wares, catering to any forgotten supplies, and of course charging exorbitant prices. Varric and his brother Bartrand were in one corner, huddled over maps, plotting out last minute course changes to the Deep Roads. Fenris stood in another corner, arms crossed, shifting his weight as he waited impatiently. Bodahn and his son Sandal were going through their checklist, making certain they were prepared. And Anders stood away from it all, watching from a distance.

He was never a fan of crowds, even less so seeing the disorganized way the mercenaries and dwarves all pandered about. The square seemed a lot smaller with that many people around, including the guard who were overseeing the crowd and keeping the urchins from Lowtown away. He wondered idly where Hawke was, but didn't have to wonder long as he spotted her walking toward the market, obviously coming from her estate. He'd just taken a step in her direction when a rough looking man grabbed her arm and pulled her toward him.

Anders had never seen the man before, and considered interfering before a voice behind him gave him pause. "I wouldn't, Blondie," Varric said. "You don't want any part of that."

"Who is he?" Anders asked, feeling the anger rise within him. Who dared to touch Hawke like that? And why would she allow it?

He heard Varric sigh beside him. "That is Meeran," the dwarf informed him. "Leader of the Red Iron. You know he's bad news when even the Coterie and the Carta don't mess with him."

They watched as Hawke shrugged off Meeran's grasp and the two engaged in a heated, yet whispered, argument. Hawke raised her hand and began pointing at Meeran, and the Red Iron leader grabbed her wrist midair. She tried to pull away, but his grasp was firm.

Anders couldn't take his eyes off the interaction. The longer they argued and he watched her struggle against the taller man, the more his blood boiled. He struggled within himself to keep control of his anger; a flash of blue light in his eyes the only hint that he was losing that battle. "No," he whispered. "Not here…"

Varric turned to look at the mage. "You alright Blondie?" he asked, seeing what looked like a streak of lightning flash beneath the man's skin.

He took a steadying breath before responding. "Fine," he said between gritted teeth. He turned away from Hawke and Meeran. "Why is she even speaking to him?" Anders asked, focusing on his breathing in an attempt to remain calm.

"I don't know, to be honest," Varric admitted. "But I've had my suspicions for a while now that Rosebud was in over her head with some kind of trouble."

"How so?" Anders asked.

Varric kept his watchful eye on Hawke. "Late night visits to the Hanged Man, beat up and bruised from a fight here and there. She'd always brush it off to some skirmish with Isabela and some hoodlums at the docks, but there are nights, believe it or not, that Isabela stays in, and their stories didn't match. A few times when it was really bad, Hawke ended up staying in my room, avoiding home."

"You didn't press her on what she was doing?" Anders asked in disbelief.

"Are you kidding me?" Varric asked. "No way. If she wanted to talk, she would. If she wanted help, she'd ask. She needs a safe place to crash, no questions asked? She's got me. And I'd rather have it that way than not know where she is."

Anders thought about the multiple scars he had seen on Hawke's body, and with Varric's details, the pieces were falling into place. "So she does a job for this ruffian, gets hurt, and cowers at the Hanged Man instead of facing her family? But for what reason? She certainly doesn't need the coin."

"I haven't figured that part out yet," Varric told him. "But I've got people looking into it. Trust me Blondie, we care about her as much as you do. Problem is, Rosebud's got more pride than all of us combined, and will probably never tell us what she's up to. Best not to ask either. And she's coming over here, so try and act normal."

Anders turned to see Hawke approaching. He tried to ignore the fact that she was rubbing her wrist, as well as the obvious fake smile she had plastered on her face. "Just what are you two conspiring about?" she asked when she reached them.

"How much ale to bring," Varric quipped. "You kiss your mother goodbye this morning?"

Hawke rolled her eyes, remembering the dramatic scene that had unfolded at the estate earlier. "Oh yes. Through her fussing and her tears, and her concern for my appearance, even in the Deep Roads. 'If you insist on traipsing around in the dirt of the underground, at least bring the proper shoes' she said. Needless to say, the heels she offered are in a bush outside the estate."

Varric laughed. "If I see Leandra running through Hightown with a pair of heels in her hand calling your name, no offense Rosebud, but I'm going to pretend I don't know you."

"I'm going to pretend I don't know me either," she laughed with him. Hawke retrieved a small pouch from her belt and handed it to Varric. "I believe you've been waiting for this."

Varric eagerly accepted the bag, measuring the weight with the palm of his hand. "Feels about right," he said. "Which reminds me, I have something for you, too." Varric reached behind him and retrieved a small thin package wrapped in leather from his belt. "Parting gift from Isabela. She said you'd understand why she didn't stop by for a personal send off."

Hawke couldn't help but smile. "Can you imagine Isabela acting like my mother? All teary-eyed and clingy, begging me not to go? Hardly," she scoffed, opening the package. Within it was a small throwing knife. "Now  _this_  is Isabela, practical as ever." Hawke re-wrapped the weapon and stuffed it in her boot. "Are we almost ready to go?"

Varric nodded. "Let me give this to my brother so he can start paying off the others," he said. "Thank you Hawke, I owe you."

"Yes, you do," Hawke grinned. After Varric left to see to Bartrand, she turned to Anders. "You're awfully quiet this morning. Cat got your tongue?"

He had plenty to say, but Varric's warnings repeated in his mind. Instead, Anders simply shrugged. "In no hurry to return to the Deep Roads, that's all," he told her.

Hawke walked a few feet to a nearby crate of supplies and sat down. "You've been?" she asked. "Tell me about it? Personally, I'm excited. A chance to get away from Kirkwall, explore the unexplored. Hidden treasures, secret passageways…"

"Darkspawn, spiders, other unnamed, deadly creatures, and oh yes, don't forget the cave-ins," Anders countered. "Yes, very exciting."

"Where's your sense of adventure?" Hawke asked, laughing. "As a former Warden, you must have enjoyed some of it. The thrill of the hunt? That amazing rush when the battle is over and you're still standing?"

"My time as a Warden was not as luxurious as you might believe," Anders told her. "I did leave them, remember?"

"Then why are you coming?" Hawke asked.

Anders was unprepared for the question. To protect her was the obvious answer, though he couldn't admit that to her. "A lot can happen," he said. "As a Warden, I can sense the darkspawn should they linger in this part of the Deep Roads. Also it's a long way to the surface with an injury; without me, should something happen, the chance of survival isn't good." He reached for her hand, noticing the bruise forming where Meeran had grabbed her. "You never know when you'll need a healer," he told her as he concentrated his magic on her wrist, erasing the offensive marks.

Hawke looked up at him, questioning eyes meeting his. "I suppose that's true," she whispered. She allowed him to hold onto her hand a moment longer, but then pulled away. "I'm going to see if they need any help," she said before walking away from him.

Anders silently cursed himself. Had he gone too far? Done exactly what Varric told him not to do? If so, the following days in the Deep Roads may be the longest of his life.

* * *

"Shut up!" Orsino said as he paced the confines of his chambers. "Be quiet for a minute so I can think."

The First Enchanter was, however, alone for all appearances.

"He must be using magic," he said, wringing his hands. "How else could this happen?"

There was no audible reply, only the sound of his feet slapping against the cold stone floor as he restlessly walked back and forth, from desk to door.

"Almost got the girl, almost," he muttered. "So close, So very close."

Suddenly, he stopped and cocked his head as if listening. "Yes, yes that could work."

His pacing resumed. "Risky, but what choice do I have? It's a brothel, not well protected." His hand rose to his chin in apparent contemplation. "But the templar… is a problem."

A long pause as Orsino neither moved nor spoke, and then, a slow, wide smile spread across his face.

"Oh yes. That's good. That is very good."

He left in a hurry, a strange gleam in his eyes.

* * *

"Are you prepared?" Malcolm asked, as Cullen took the offered seat in front of the Peacekeeper's desk. "They'll be leaving soon, and I wouldn't want you to lose the trail."

"Well prepared, thanks to you," replied Cullen. "And, I'm sure with all the wagons and gear tearing up the path, they'll be easy enough to follow. My bigger concern is we've lost track of Samson, and my scout hasn't reported in."

"What are your thoughts?" asked Malcolm. The last thing they needed was Meredith's spy following his daughter into the Deep Roads.

As if he could read the Peacekeeper's mind, Cullen replied. "I won't allow anything to happen to her."

Malcolm breathed deeply. "I trust you, Cullen. You've kept my magling daughter safer than I could have myself. I'll leave it in your capable hands."

"Speaking of which, I must be off. I have not yet told Bethany I'm leaving."

"She isn't going to be happy," Malcom said, shaking his head. Not wanting to dwell on his youngest daughter, Malcolm changed the subject. "How does the new armor fit?"

Cullen glanced down, admiring the fine workmanship of the his new commissioned armor. Much less bulky than his usual templar armor, black as night instead of shiny and bright, and with several powerful runes expertly placed, he couldn't have been more pleased. "It's almost like a second skin," Cullen said. "Thank you, Peacekeeper."

Malcolm waved a hand. "It's the least I can do for you, my boy."

Cullen closed his eyes briefly. There was one last thing pressing on his mind. "Peacekeeper… Malcolm," he said at last. "Are you sure Bethany will be safe without…"

"Without you at her side?" Malcolm smiled as he rose and placed a hand on the templar's shoulder. "It's all arranged. She will be protected."

"I… thank you," Cullen said.

Malcolm looked as if he were about to say more to reassure the man, but the pounding of running footsteps was soon followed by a harsh banging on the door.

"Peacekeeper!" a voice shouted.

Malcolm hurriedly opened the door, and there stood a young templar, panting, the edges of her hair smoking like a wreath around her head.

"Come quickly!" she shouted, a wild look in her eyes. "To the courtyard, the Knight Commander needs you!"

Malcolm grabbed his staff from its stand and looked to Cullen, who was already on his feet, his hand on his sword hilt.

They ran down the long hallway and down the steps, the shouts of a pitched battle echoing on the stone walls, until they came to the large, open space, ringed by the statues of tortured slaves.

There stood Meredith and several other templars, fighting off more than a dozen demons. The Knight Commander had her shield up against the oncoming blast of fire from the rage demon in front of her, while several shades approached her from behind.

Cullen rushed past him to join the fray, as Malcolm lifted his staff and brought a wall of ice between Meredith and the glowing orange demon. With a loud roar, Cullen brought his sword down on the vile thing, but was quickly surrounded by more shades. He stumbled, and the rage demon disappeared from sight, only to reappear directly before Malcolm, seconds later.

Another ice spell, freezing the demon before him, and then with both arms held high, Malcolm sent fire raining down upon the shades. Cullen had regained his feet, and was slicing through them even as they screeched in agony, turning to ash. Several quick healing spells emerged from his staff, just as the rage demon broke through the ice. His mana running low from his efforts, Malcolm brought the bladed staff down upon its head, causing it to roar in pain, and giving him time to drink a glowing blue potion. Immediately, power surged through his veins, and he used it to encase the creature in a sphere of crushing magic.

It was enough, and with the rage demon dispatched, Malcolm hurried to join the others to finish off the rest of the shades.

It wasn't long before there was only one left, which Meredith quickly took down with an arcing swing of her longsword. She wiped the gore off her blade and sheathed it before joining Malcolm and Cullen among the smoking remains.

"How did this happen?" he demanded. Never in all his years in the Gallows had such a thing occurred.

A grim expression on her face, Meredith scanned the courtyard. "I do not know, but I will find out," she replied, before returning her eyes to Malcolm. "But, don't you find it interesting that there is no sign of the First Enchanter?"

* * *

Bethany sat on the opulent bed in the somewhat tacky room on the upper floor of the Rose, growing more impatient by the minute.  _Where was he?_ He was never late, in fact he usually arrived before she did. As time passed, her anger was turning to fear, as her mind started conjuring images of Cullen being hurt, or Maker forbid, killed. Why else would he not come to her? He always did everything he said he would, especially when it came to pleasing her.

She rose and began to pace. Maker, he did please her. If something happened to him, what would she do? She couldn't stand the thought of… Suddenly aware of her own rapidly beating hard and sweating palms, Bethany sat down again on the bed.

What  _would_ she do? Because even though her fears were probably groundless now, there would come a time when their positions would undoubtedly separate them. No, no, she wouldn't think of that. He would probably show up any minute, and she'd again be in the bliss of his arms. Now, however, that little voice of fear had awakened in her mind, and it would not be silenced. How could this last? What would happen when she was finally married off to Saemus Dumar, or some other acceptable noble? Would she have to give up Cullen? Would their nights of passion and days of sly flirting come to an end?

How could she bear it? How could anyone ever measure up to her passionate, handsome templar in her bed?

Bethany stood again, feeling suddenly naked in the face of her own heart.

It was then she began to feel very strange. As if her magic was building, readying to caste a spell, but she hadn't done a thing. She glanced around the room, and the shadows in the corners suddenly seemed dark and menacing. This couldn't be right, it had to be her fearful imagination working overtime due to Cullen's continued absence. Because underneath everything, she realized she was afraid of what was to come.

When the first of the shades arose from the floor, Bethany screamed.

* * *

Carver's mind was somewhere else, even though his body was being thoroughly attended to by the elf hovering over him. One of Madam Lusine's girls, he thought her name was Brina, though he didn't really care.

The attack on his life had done something to him. Something terrible, that no booze or whore could wash away. He'd realized just how quickly his life could end. But worse, he'd realized that other than his mother's tears, it would hardly matter a whit to anyone if he were gone.

With a grunt, Carver pushed the girl off him. "Leave," he said.

"But I've only just started, ser," she said with a worried expression. "I can please you, I know I can…"

"Oh shut up," Carver grumbled. "Don't worry, I won't complain to your boss. Just get out of here."

"Yes, ser. Right away, ser," she said, and grabbing her robe, quickly slipped out the door.

Carver sat up and began to pull on his trousers. There had to be something he could do to stop this obsessing and have some fun. If sex didn't answer, maybe some cards down at the Hanged Man would do the trick.

He picked up his belt, now with the added weight of a shortsword and scabbard attached to the leather. Father's insistence. 'Don't leave the estate unarmed,' he'd said. Carver had told him there was no way he would carry a blighted longsword on his back.

" _That's why I sent for this," Malcolm said, showing him the intricately carved short sword in its leather and silverite scabbard. "A gift from a friend."_

" _What friend?" Carver asked. He couldn't stop his hands from reaching out, the small sword was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship, unlike anything he'd ever seen. It made little sense that his father would bestow such a gift upon him, the worthless son._

" _A templar. Ser_ _Maurevar_ _Carver, if you really want to know," Malcolm replied. "Your namesake."_

" _A templar?" Carver repeated, clearly astonished._

" _A friend," Malcolm stated._

_Carver glanced up sharply. "Why have I never met him, if I'm named after him?"_

" _He's been in Orlais for many years," Malcolm replied. "It is through his efforts that I became Peacekeeper, instead of being locked away in the Circle." Malcolm nodded toward the weapon. "Its enchantment is very special, very unique."_

" _How?" he asked._

" _You'll find out, if you ever have need to use it."_

Truthfully, Carver hoped that he never did. He threw several gold sovereigns on the bed, and opened the door to leave, when a bloodcurdling scream sounded from a room several doors down. Without thinking, Carver raced toward the door, even as he heard people begin to shout in the bar below.

What he saw when he yanked open the door almost stopped his heart.

There was his sister, his twin sister, trying to fight off four demons just with the power from her hands. Her staff leaned uselessly against the wall, too far out of her reach.

"Sister!" Carver shouted, and instinctively drew the shortsword from his belt. Immediately, it erupted in a strange green light that nearly blinded him.

"Help me, Carver!" screamed Bethany, as she sank to the floor, overwhelmed by the shades.

And he did. He helped her. The sword sliced through the air, metal gleaming as he chopped the first shade nearly in half. The thrill of the fight sang strong in his blood as he went after the next one, while at the same time Bethany cast a weak repulsion spell that sent the third stumbling back, right into Carver's blade. The last demon was a piece of cake, and though he'd never admit it, Carver was almost sorry there hadn't been more, so heady was the bloodlust now running through his veins.

"Carver," Bethany cried, throwing herself into his arms. "Carver, you saved me!" And she began to sob in earnest.

A few minutes later, a white-faced Cullen ran into the room, his sword drawn. From the look of him, he'd been in a fight himself.

The templar stopped short when he saw Bethany safe in her brother's arms. He breathed her name.

So, that's how it was, Carver thought. He'd been so out of it, he'd never even noticed. How much else had he been missing?

When Bethany saw Cullen, she called his name, and reached out for him.

Carver left them alone, hardly noticing where he was going, his head still spinning from the fight he'd just fought - and won. The adrenaline coursing through his veins, the high he still felt, was better than any drink he'd indulged in, or any night of meaningless sex. Is this why Amber insisted on defying Mother's wishes of being the perfect daughter? The thrill, the excitement, the pure rush of it all? He'd been judging his sister as a show off, believing that daddy's little girl thought she didn't have to play by the same rules as the rest of them. But now… now he was beginning to think he might have been wrong. Andraste's ass, who would have ever thought it?


	15. Chapter 15

Malcolm Hawke, Peacekeeper of Kirkwall, sat in his office at the Gallows, wondering how things had gotten quite so out of control. Attacks on his family, demons erupting in the Gallows, his daughter sent off to the Deep Roads for her safety - Maker, it seemed the city had gone mad, despite all his efforts to maintain peace and order.

Not since Knight Commander Guylain was killed in the uprising that saw Dumar appointed viscount,  by the brand new Knight Commander Meredith no less, had things been this bad. And to think, he’d been the one to secure Meredith the position. She’d seemed so steady and competent after that fool Guylain - he couldn’t have predicted he would be fighting her every step of the way for control of the Gallows.

The woman’s tyrannical approach to dealing with the Circle’s mages had only become worse over the years. Orsino’s constant combative attitude had not helped matters either. Unfortunately, he’d been the highest ranking Senior Enchanter when Malcolm was appointed Peacekeeper. Young as Orsino was, there had been no other choice, and Malcolm was sure the elf still resented him for rising above him in power and influence.

There was no knock on the door, no warning at all, in fact, when it flew open to reveal the object of his thoughts.

“Peacekeeper,” said Orsino as he entered the room. “You asked for me?”

Malcolm suppressed his annoyance, and with a deceptively calm facade, replied, “First Enchanter. Please do come in. Have a seat.” He motioned to the chair in front of his desk.

Obviously taken aback by Malcolm’s composure, Orsino quickly hid his surprise and took the offered seat. “Why exactly did you send for me? I’ve got two harrowings this afternoon, and I really don’t have time…”

Malcolm lifted a hand and Orsino immediately stopped talking. “First Enchanter,” he said in a friendly tone. “Might I enquire of your whereabouts this morning?”

Orsino looked at him sharply. “In my office, of course. Unlike you, I don’t have the luxury of running all over Kirkwall as would please me.”

“I see,” Malcolm said, steepling two fingers under his chin. “So, you were unaware of the massive demon attack on the Gallows?”

“I didn’t… I mean, yes, I heard something about that,” he said, shifting in his chair. “But you and the Knight Commander seem to have dispatched them with no trouble.”

“No trouble?” Malcolm repeated, one eyebrow raised. “Perhaps.” He rose from his chair and went to stand behind Orsino, causing the elf to glance nervously over his shoulder. “And you aren’t concerned that such a thing would happen?  Here, under your very nose, by perhaps one of your own?”

“Why should I be concerned, or surprised for that matter?” Orsino asked spitefully. “The way Meredith treats the mages like prisoners, it’s no wonder some would resort to blood magic.”

Malcolm said nothing for a time, then, “So let me see if I understand you. You believe that over a dozen demons appeared in the courtyard because mages, under your guidance, resorted to blood magic?” Malcolm forcefully turned Orsino’s chair and leaned down close to his face. “What kind of fool do you take me for, First Enchanter?” he asked in a deceptively calm voice.

“You have no right…” Orsino stammered, beads of sweat appearing on his brow.

“No?” Malcolm straightened and casually returned to his desk. “Let me enlighten you, First Enchanter. My rights allow me to remove you from your position and lock you in a cell, should I choose.”

“You wouldn’t dare…” Orsino replied, clearly afraid now. “Only Whitespire…”

“By the time the news reached them, anything could happen,” Malcolm told him with a grim smile. “So, if I were you, I would tread carefully.” He moved to the door and motioned for Orsino to leave. “Very carefully.”

For a long moment, Orsino only sat there, staring at the Peacekeeper, a mixture of fear and spite clouding his large eyes.

“Good day, First Enchanter,” Malcolm said emphatically. He watched Orsino rise from his chair and hurriedly depart without another word.

 

* * *

 

Carver stared at the fake wooden sword in his hand, unsure and slightly aggravated at his decision to ask Isabela for assistance. From everything his sister had said, she was the best with a blade in all of the city, and after his experience at the Rose, he found himself wanting to be the best, too. “What good is this going to do?” he asked.

Isabela sighed.  “Do you want my help or not?” she asked.

“I don’t see much help going on,” Carver told her.  “You’re doing whatever it is to your nails over there while I’m doing all the work.”

“I don’t need the training,” she said with a smile.  “Now, back on the barrell.”

Carver held his tongue while he climbed the empty keg.  For the last hour he had been standing on the round object, practicing balance as he walked on it back and forth down the long alley.  At first he had fallen a few times, learning to remain upright while maneuvering the thing with only his legs.  But he had it down now, and was already frustrated at the redundancy.  “Cleary I’ve mastered this.  Can we move on to something else?”

In an instant, Isabela retrieved a throwing knife from her boot and flung it in Carver’s direction.  He ducked out of the way, losing his balance and falling off the barrell.  In an effort to break his fall, he had released the wooden sword, which went spiralling through the air before it landed with a loud thump on his back.  “Fuck, that hurt!” he exclaimed, struggling to stand.

“Had it been a real sword, you’d be dead,” Isabela said casually.  “Try it again.”

“A little warning would’ve been nice,” Carver muttered, brushing the dirt from his pants.

Isabela hopped off the crate where she’d been casually sitting, cleaning her nails.  “Because the bad guys will always warn you before they attack?  One of the key lessons in fighting is expecting the unexpected.  Learn from your mistakes, don’t whine about them like a little bitch.”

Carver glared at her.  “This is pointless.  If you’re not going to help, I’m off to get a drink.” He was pretty sure his profuse sweating had more to do with lack of said drink, than it did his recent exertions.

“Ah, that’s it, run along and find the solution to your problems in a bottle,” Isabela said as she casually circled around him.  “Because that’s worked so brilliantly for you so far.”

“What do you know?” Carver asked.  “You’re too busy shagging my sister to know the truth about any of it.”

“Formerly shagging,” Isabela corrected him.  “Clearly you missed the part where she moved on.  But that’s typical of you, isn’t it?  So wrapped up in your own little world of whiskey and whores that you haven’t a clue what’s been going on around you.  I know Amber was nearly killed last week.  I know you were the next to be attacked and then not long after, your twin, so clearly there’s a contract out on the entire family.  I know your father is the one who sent Amber off to the Deep Roads in some lame attempt to protect her, and even has her being followed.  You all are being watched, for that matter,” she said, pointing to a man whistling to himself at the end of the pier.  “Your mother sneaks out of the house, regardless of the current threat, to attend her socialite tea parties, because we all know the death of her reputation would be worse than, well, death.  And if that’s not enough of my Hawke family knowledge for you, I know one sister pursues a mage while the other bangs a templar.  Satisfied?”

Carver frowned, glancing at the man Isabela had spotted.  “How do you know so much?” he asked, unable to think of anything else to say after she’d proven him wrong. It seemed excitement and danger had been creeping around his very doorstep, and he’d been too busy indulging himself to notice. He didn’t know whether that made him ashamed, or angry.

“Because I pay attention,” she said, kicking up the wooden sword for him to catch.  “Now we can either keep training, or you can sit here and wallow in your self pity while I go find my afternoon conquest.”

Carver remained silent as he climbed the barrell, and prepared to begin again.

 

* * *

 

Aveline paced her small, temporary office, the walls closing in on her the longer the seconds ticked by.  Malcolm’s raised voice repeated in her mind, his threat fueling the heavy beat of her heart.  She had gone through the evidence dozens of times and still found nothing in Guardsman Provost’s past, or in his actions, that would give reason for the attack on Carver Hawke.  There were also no leads on the dagger that was used in the attempted assassination of Ambrosia Hawke. Dead end after dead end, which would only lead to her own end.

This is how Donnic found her, her usually calm and stoic demeanor shattered, face flushed, strands of hair escaping the tie that normally held it within regulations.  He reached for her in comfort, but she pulled away.

“Not now, Donnic,” Aveline said, a sigh of contempt escaping her lips without warning.

“If you would stop for one moment,” Donnic said, “I may be able to assist.”

She paused momentarily to hear him out.  “Anything.  I am desperate.”

“I wouldn’t dare suggest your desperation is due to the unfair pressure the Peacekeeper has placed on you,” Donnic said cautiously.  “Allow me to speak to him on your behalf,  buy you some time so you can investigate thoroughly without fear of repercussion.”

Aveline laughed nervously.  “And what makes you think you can persuade the man to give me leniency?  You are no more than a guardsman to him, meddling in the affairs of the higher powers of Kirkwall.  This was my task to complete, and as he no doubt distrusts the guard at the moment, sending another member of the order in my place will only enrage him further.”

“Trust me,” Donnic asked of her.  “I will speak to him, man to man.  Make him see reason that his request was irrational and motivated by his own fears. I will simply ask him for more time.  If you so desire, I will advise him I am making the plea on your behalf without your knowledge.”

She thought on his proposal for a moment.  “More time and less pressure is what I need.  But are you certain you can convince him?”

Donnic grinned.  “I would not risk you further hardship were I uncertain,” he told her.  

“Alright then,” Aveline conceded.  “But I’ve played no part in this.  I don’t want the man seeing me weaker than he already assumes I am.”

“You have my word,” he said, cupping her cheek as he leaned in to kiss her.  “I will make everything right,” he promised her when he pulled away.

The hard part of his plan over, Donnic breathed a sigh of relief as he exited the Keep and made his way toward the Gallows.  He rehearsed his prepared speech over and over in his mind, hoping to remember every last detail.  Malcolm Hawke was not a man to be trifled with, and he had to be clear and direct, factual and persuasive without being forceful, if this was going to work.

His confidence wavered slightly as he arrived at the Peacekeeper’s office, but Donnic mustered his courage as he knocked on door.  A muffled sound from within beckoned him to enter, and he stood tall as he approached the man’s desk.

“Greetings Peacekeeper,” Donnic began with a slight bow.  “My name is Donnic Hendyr, and I bring news of the incidents you asked the Acting Guard-Captain to investigate.”

Malcolm looked up from his reports to study the man before him.  “Is there a reason your superior could not report to me herself?” he asked.

“Forgive me Peacekeeper, but Aveline is unaware that I am here, for reasons you will soon discover.”  Donnic retrieved several parchments from his satchel and handed them to Malcolm.  “I’ve had my suspicions for some time,” he continued as Malcolm perused the documents.  “As you can see, this is a delicate situation, one I could not bring to her attention.”

“I see,” Malcolm agreed.  “Is there more?”

Donnic nodded.  “Just this,” he said, holding out a dagger.  “The matching blade to the dagger you’ve already in evidence, found in the same location as those plans for the assaults.”

Malcolm accepted the weapon, noticing the similarities in design to the weapon that nearly killed his daughter.  “Very well, Guardsman Hendyr.  Thank you for bringing this to my attention.  I trust you will not make mention of this to anyone else until the situation is dealt with?”

“My word, Peacekeeper,” he said with another bow.  

Malcolm watched as the young man exited his office, and then gathered the notes and weapon.  He walked down the hall to Meredith’s office, and without bothering with the courtesy of a knock, he entered.

Meredith glanced up at him as he walked toward her.  “A troubled expression,” she commented.  “Has something else happened?”

He handed her the documents provided by Donnic.  “One of yours,” Malcolm said.  “Tell me everything you know about Wesley Vallen.”

 

* * *

 

High mountain peaks stretched east to west as far as the eye could see; the only break, a pass cut by the river they were now following to the north.

“Does this river even have a name?” asked Hawke as she stopped to survey a distant waterfall. Not far ahead, the land rose steeply on either side, forming a gorge into which the falls dropped. Hawke could hear the low rumble of the water, even though it was almost a league away.

“According to Blondie’s Grey Warden Maps, it’s just called “the River,” Varric said with a chuckle. “No one lives in this Maker-forgotten place to name it, I guess.”

“And where is the Deep Roads entrance? Can I see it from here?” she asked, shielding her eyes with one hand and peering north toward the Vimmarks.

“Supposedly, there is a path that cuts east, not far from that waterfall,” he replied. “It leads to an entrance built by the Wardens during the fourth Blight.”

At the mention of Wardens, Hawke’s eyes drifted to the solitary figure walking behind Bodhan’s cart. Anders had been unusually quiet as they’d travelled north, responding to her teasing and flirting with monosyllables and forced smiles.

Varric could apparently read her expression all too well. “Go on, Rosebud, give it another try.”

A mischievous smile curved her lips and she took off at a jog.

“So,” she drawed as she came up beside the mage. “Varric was considering changing your nickname from Blondie to Gloomy.”

He glanced down at her, his mouth a flat line as he muttered, “I am not gloomy.”

“Grumpy, then? I think Grumpy suits,” she went on, impishly.

He didn’t answer, only rubbed a hand over his eyes.

Her frustration growing by the minute, Hawke said, “If I’d known you would be this much fun, I’d have found another Grey Warden mage to join up.”

Anders snorted. “Because there are just so many to choose from.”

“Anders,” she said, seriously this time. She grabbed his arm and pulled him to a stop. “Why won’t you talk to me?”

“I am talking,” he said, but at her skeptical expression, he sighed heavily. Instead of looking at her, he focused on the slim fingers now encircling his wrist. “Look Amber, I know you mean well, but just… leave it.”

“Mean well?” she questioned. “Mean well?” she repeated in a higher tone. She glared up at him for a long pause before she added, “I thought you were better than this, Anders.” She released her hold on him and had stalked off a few paces before he called her back.

“Wait! Amber… wait,” he said.

Hawke stopped, but kept her back to him. She could see his shadow shifting beside her on the path.

“The thing I didn't mention before was... The last time I was in the Deep Roads it was… bad,” he finally said in a low voice. “Most of us didn’t make it out alive.”

Hawke waited, not turning toward him, even though she wanted to. His words were like a punch to her stomach, and she didn’t want him to see the pained expression on her face. She’d been treating their expedition like a grand adventure, and an escape from her increasing troubles with Meeran, when the reality was likely to be much more grim.

“Amber?” The tone in his voice sent shivers down her spine.

She composed her features as best she could and finally turned to him. She didn’t want to add to his worries, or make light of his fears, so she said, “It’s alright Anders, you don’t have to talk about it.” She gave him a weak smile. “Just don’t shut me out, okay?”

Anders only nodded, and they resumed walking, side by side.

 

* * *

 

They camped that night at the foot of a cliff, the gaping maw of the Deep Roads entrance like a devouring mouth about to eat them for dinner.

From his seat at the campfire, Anders watched as Hawke and Varric studied the Deep Roads maps spread out on the back of a cart, a single lantern casting an eerie glow upon their faces.

He noticed someone else watching, too. In fact, he’d noticed the elf keeping an eagle’s eye on Hawke every step of their journey north. He’d never seen Fenris take such an interest in her before, and if he were honest with himself, he didn’t like it - not at all.

When Fenris passed by the fire on yet another deceptively casual stroll around the camp, Anders felt the bubble of frustration, which had been building inside him ever since that mercenary had accosted Amber, finally burst.

“What are you? Her babysitter or something?” Anders muttered just loud enough for the elf to hear.

Fenris stopped and glared down at the mage. “So, it is as I thought,” he said, apparently satisfied.

Anders quickly stood, not liking the sneering look on the elf's face, and replied. “What do you mean by that?”

Fenris smiled. “You are as big a fool as you look.”

The elf’s words caused an unwanted reaction inside him, and Anders could feel the stirrings that meant he was near losing control. If he started to glow now, that could mean real trouble. "You know nothing about me,” he said in a tone of low anger.

“While you seem completely ignorant about the object of your concern,” Fenris said, his voice also low, but steady. “You are well aware that she was nearly killed. That someone is targeting the Peacekeeper’s children, and yet you question those who would ensure that it does not happen.”

“The Peacekeeper’s children?” Anders asked. He'd thought Amber their only target.

“Yes, Bethany and Carver have also had attempts made on their lives, which you might have known if you cared for anyone or anything but yourself,” Fenris said quickly, a gleam of contempt in his eyes. “Amber knows none of this, or she would never have left Kirkwall. I watch her at the request of her own father.”

Apparently, their voices had carried further than they’d realized, because before Anders could say another word, Hawke approached them, a look of concern on her face. “Is something wrong?” she asked.

Fenris held Anders gaze for another moment, before he turned to Amber. “Perhaps you should ask the mage.” He smiled at Hawke and added, “I’ll bid you goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Fenris,” she called to his retreating form. She turned to Anders, a question in her eyes. “So?”

“Nothing, it’s nothing,” Anders replied then tried to smile. “He just rubs me the wrong way sometimes.”

Hawke laughed. “Fenris is an acquired taste. You’ll get used to him.”

“Will I?” he asked. Still reeling from what Fenris had told him, and wanting to change the subject, he asked, “How goes it with the maps?”

Hawke sighed. “There’s no way of predicting cave-ins or areas where the darkspawn might be concentrated. We have the entrance, but the rest is no more than a crap shoot.”

“That’s why you have me,” he said. “At least to tell you when the darkspawn are close.”

“And just how much warning will we have?” she asked.

“Enough to draw your daggers?” Anders quipped, trying to lighten the mood.

“Very funny,” she replied, punching him on the arm. “A mage and a comedian, how lucky am I?”

Anders couldn’t resist, he lifted a hand and brushed away a stray lock of hair from her forehead. He didn’t think it was his imagination that she shivered slightly at his touch. “Very lucky, considering only a week ago you couldn’t get out of your bed.”

She looked  up at him, her eyes glimmering in the flickering firelight, and he realized his hand was still gently cradling the side of her head. As if she could tell he was about to pull away, Hawke placed her hand over his and whispered softly. “Luck has nothing to do with it. It was you who saved me.”

The urge to kiss her was nearly overwhelming. And perhaps he would have given in to the temptation, to taste her, to hold her close against him. To take the risk and all that it would mean…

“Rosebud!” called Varric. “You should see what Bodhan’s boy did to Bianca!” They pulled apart just as the dwarf joined them. “Uh oh,” he said with a knowing grin, noticing their flushed faces. “Guess I’m interrupting.”

Hawke smiled and shook her head. “Let’s have a look at Bianca.”

As the two began an inspection of Bianca’s new rune, Anders sat down heavily, his head full of _almosts_ and _what-ifs_ and _what should never be_. This was going to be a very long few weeks.

 


	16. Chapter 16

Carver followed Madam Lusine up the carpeted stairway to the second floor. He had no idea why she’d sent for him, and truth be told, his plans had included avoiding the Rose by all and any means possible. The incident with Bethany and the demon had more than soured his taste for the brothel.

With each step he could feel his leg muscles protesting. Blasted barrel, he thought. His training session with Isabela the day before had definitely left him sore and bruised, but also… good. As pointless as the whole thing had seemed at first, by the end of the day, she could no longer knock him off and send him tumbling to the ground. Maybe, just maybe, he could someday emerge from his sister’s long shadow.

The Madam interrupted his thoughts as they stood before a closed door. One of her thugs stood guard, his arms crossed as he glared at Carver.

“The mess in there belongs to you,” Madam Lusine said, gesturing toward the door. “I expect you to make it so I don’t know this ever happened.”

Carver’s heart leapt to his throat. Maker, why did it have to be the same room where Bethany had been attacked by that demon?  What if… what if she were…

“When you’re finished,” she said,” I will _not_ see you again, Sera Hawke.” With that she turned away, leaving him alone with the burly guard.

“Go on, then,” the man grumbled.

His hand shaking, Carver turned the knob and pushed the door open. At first, the only thing he could see was a pair of feet sticking out from behind the bed. All the air rushed from his lungs as he realized those feet were much too large and hairy to belong to his sister. But if not Bethany, then who? Why would Madame Lusine call this his problem?

His mouth dry and his chest tight, Carver closed the door behind him with a soft click, and with his hand resting on his sword hilt, he cautiously approached the bed.

Despite his relief that it wasn’t Bethany, the sight that greeted his eyes was still a shock. He should have known who the dead man would be, if only he’d stopped to think.

“Gamlen,” he whispered. Carver’s stomach heaved from the stench arising from his uncle, and he turned his head as a fit of coughing overcame him. For a moment, he thought he would lose the contents of his stomach, but he swallowed hard and pulled himself together. It was more than the familiar smells of body odor and liquor that usually hovered around Gamlen like a fog - there was something bitter, almost like the thick, polluted air down by the Foundry. He leaned down for a closer inspection, covering his nose with his fist, and saw a thick, viscous green goo oozing from his uncle’s mouth. He did his best to avoid looking at the unseeing eyes; they looked too much like eyes of the dead fish in the market at the docks. It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen Gamlen lying in a pool of his own vomit many times before, but this was different. This was…

“Poison,” he muttered aloud.

_Andraste’s ass, who had done this?_

In that moment, something inside Carver Hawke shifted, flooding his senses with a feeling he’d never before known. It was as if his entire life he’d been living a lie, and now the true man inside himself finally broke free of his self-made prison. Perhaps it was because he been cursed with such an outgoing, talented older sister. Or maybe it was because he had a father that no one could ever hope to live up to. Right then, however, none of that mattered. For a moment he could see his own face superimposed over that of the dead man. He’d been a coward and a fool, all because he had been worried about how he could never measure up. Jealous over successes he could never have. Who he was, and what he could accomplish himself, had been lost in a haze of self-pity and loathing.

With a resolve that would have made his father proud, Carver said to his uncle, “Don’t worry, Uncle Gamlen,  I’ll find who did this, and I will make them pay.”

 

* * *

 

Samson arrived at the designated meeting place just outside Kirkwall.  He would’ve preferred to complete this particular mission on his own, or with men he could trust, but Meredith insisted the man he was to meet could be of great assistance.  Working with strangers, or anyone for that matter, was never something for which Samson received commendations.  He had been in more trouble with the templars than any one of his so-called brothers, and it surprised him that he remained in the order to do this day.  But to have an escort, or more-than-likely a babysitter, on this mission grated his nerves.

 

Meredith wouldn’t have selected him if she didn’t think him competent, or so he’d thought until she arranged this little meeting.  Samson knew nothing of the man, not even his name.  He wasn’t even certain what to look for should he be approached. Too late to consider that now, he thought as he waited.  He hoped whoever it was at least knew they were looking for him, and that he didn’t waste his entire day wandering the road away from Kirkwall.

The expedition had a head start, which wasn’t a grave concern.  Two men would move much more swiftly than the large group that had accompanied Bartrand Tethras.  Get in, find out what they’re after, create some sort of cave-in to trap and possibly kill them, and head home.  All in a few days work, and with the added bonus of pay and appreciation from Meredith.  Assuming this man was as good as Meredith claimed he was.  And if he ever arrived.

Patience wearing thin, Samson decided to begin the journey toward the Deep Roads entrance.  Since his unknown partner was headed toward Kirkwall, Samson deduced that they’d meet somewhere in the middle, and it would save them both time.  He had only been walking for a few minutes when the sound of a dark, rough voice reached his ear.

“Not one for following instruction, are you?”

Samson spun around, reaching for his sword, and was met with an arrow aimed straight at his head.  His opponent was dressed in leathers, long black hair tied behind his head.  “What in the Maker’s name is wrong with you, stranger?” Samson asked.  “Sneaking up on someone like that will get you killed.”

“And yet it appears I have the upper hand,” the man said before he withdrew.  He eyed Samson warily.  A bit sloppy for a templar, he thought, at least compared to all the other templars he had met.  This slob was to be his support in traveling the darkspawn infested tunnels?  “What have you been told?” he asked.

“Only that you’re to accompany me.  I know nothing else, not even your name,” Samson informed him, reaching out to shake the man’s hand.  “My name is Samson.”

The dark haired man nodded, placing the arrow back in his quiver and securing his bow on his back.  “Nathaniel Howe,” he said, ignoring Samson’s outstretched hand.  “We should hurry, they’ve a head start.”  

Samson followed Nathaniel, who had already set out on the path before them.  “I know what I’m doing here,” Samson said.  “But what are you doing here?  As I said, I know nothing about you.”

Nathaniel felt the anger build within him as he thought on his answer.  “An eye for an eye, my new friend,” he said.  “More than that you need not know.”

In the distance, unseen by either of the men, Cullen watched the exchange between the stranger and Samson. There was little doubt in his mind now that Malcolm's daughter was in danger, and so he continued to pursue the two from afar, hoping to gather evidence for the Peacekeeper.

 

* * *

 

Carver could feel his heart pounding rapidly within his chest the closer he came to the estate.  Convincing Madam Lusine to leave the scene of the crime intact had been a lot easier than what he was about to face.  How was he supposed to tell his mother that her only brother, and last remaining relative in Kirkwall, was dead?  The recent attacks on Amber and Bethany weighed heavily on his mind; it could just as easily have been him receiving the terrible news of a lost sibling.

For the first time in a long while, he prayed to the Maker that his father was home.  Certainly the Peacekeeper would know what to do.  Was there even a right or wrong way to handle something such as this?  Carver had never faced the death of someone close to him, if you could even call them close.  What was Gamlen to him anyway?  A drinking partner?  A side-kick at his dirty card games? Some would definitely say a bad influence.  His uncle was always by his side during the worst of his nights; not in support, but in encouragement.  He was all those things, but in the end, he was also family.  

Arriving at the Hawke estate, Carver immediately went to Malcolm’s study, and was relieved to find him there.  “Father,” he choked, barely able to get the word out as a flood of emotions boiled to the surface.  Whatever resolve he had felt when he’d left the Rose was now shattered.  Strong he could be, he knew that now, but it was a relief to be safe within the comfort of his home, his father and protector in front of him.

Malcolm stood swiftly when he saw the ashen-faced boy before him.  “What is it, Son?” he asked, assisting Carver into a chair.

Carver took several deep breaths in an attempt to calm his rattled nerves. “Gamlen,” he managed, swallowing hard before he continued.  “At the Rose.  Gamlen’s dead.”

The Peacekeeper got down on one knee and grabbed of his son’s arm. He looked Carver directly in the in eye, as if measuring the truth of his words.  “Dead?” he questioned.  “Are you certain?”

Carver nodded.  “Some kind of poison, I think,” he said. “It was green, and had a smell like rotten lemons mixed with dead rats.”

“Deathroot,” he muttered. Then, in an unwaver tone asked, “Where is the body?”

“Still there, at the Rose” Carver told him.  “I asked the proprietor to allow no one entrance until we returned.”

Malcolm stood, resting a hand on Carver’s shoulder.  “You did well. I’ll take care of it.  There’s no need for you to go back there.”

Carver jumped to his feet.  “Father, please,” he begged.  “I need to see this through.  Let me come with you, let me help you.”

Malcolm was taken aback by Carver’s determination, and for the first time since his arrival, he noticed the sword upon his son’s back.  “You’ve acquired some skill with that blade, Son?” he asked.  

Carver nodded.  “I have.”

Malcolm considered Carver’s offer.  Normally he would turn to Cullen for assistance in matters such as this.  But with Cullen out of the city, and the guard apparently incompetent and untrustworthy as of late, Carver was actually the best option available to him. His son was tall and strong, and despite his idiotic behavior, he had a keen mind.  Kirkwall was clearly no longer safe for their family; best to stick together if they had to venture out at all.  “Alright,” Malcolm conceded.  “But we do this as swiftly and quietly as possible.  My arrival at the Rose will cause enough of a stir, we don’t need anymore unwanted attention above that.”

Carver was about to respond when the sound of the front door opening startled them both.  Malcolm immediately retrieved his staff while Carver reached for his sword, and the two cautiously moved from Malcolm’s study to the living room. The chatter of two women’s voices could be heard from the foyer, and Carver relaxed slightly after recognizing them as his mother and sister.

Contrary to Carver’s relief, Malcolm became furious.  He had assumed  his family was safely tucked away in their bedrooms, but to see them arriving home alone, with no protection assigned to them, infuriated him.  He grabbed Leandra’s arm after slamming the door shut and locking it.  “I thought I made it quite clear that neither one of you were to leave the estate,” he nearly shouted, voice wavering in anger.

“You will unhand me this instant, Malcolm Hawke,” Leandra huffed, pulling her arm away from him.  “It was one tiny event, and only right next door.  I see no reason for you to…”

“Gamlen is dead,” Malcolm said tersely, ignoring Leandra’s excuses.  “So when I tell you to remain inside and go nowhere, I mean it.”

Leandra ignored his demand, focused solely on the words that her brother was dead.  “Gamlen?  Are you sure?” Her hand flew to her throat. “There must be some mistake.”

Carver nodded.  “No mistake, Mother. I’m sorry, but it was him… his body.” It was strange how his own nerves steadied, even as his mother and sister began to fall apart.

Bethany shook her head in disbelief, all the color draining from her face. “No, this can not be!  Who would dare do such a thing to us, to our family? Father, what is going on?”

“Not now, Bethany,” Malcolm said, concern in his eyes for his wife now that his anger had subsided from its initial outburst. “You act as if you’ve forgotten you were just attacked yesterday, while today you traipsed about with your mother unguarded.  We will speak of this later.”

Leandra’s wide eyes looked between her husband and her twin children.  The attacks on Amber and Bethany still weighed heavily on her mind.  And now Gamlen, dead?  It finally was enough to overwhelm her, and she cried out before she covered her face with her hands and fell to her knees in grief.  

 

* * *

 

Hawke shifted in her bedroll in an impossible attempt to get comfortable. Sure, she’d camped out on the Wounded Coast more than once, but there was a huge difference between sandy dirt and hard stone. And, other than one small nest of giant spiders, that was her total experience of the Deep Roads thus far. Maker, no wonder the dwarves were obsessed with stone-this and stone-that. How they managed to live and maintain a society in places such as this was something she couldn’t possibly fathom.  

She wasn’t exactly disappointed that there had been no sign of darkspawn yet, but the drudgery of picking their way through and around rock falls and lava flows was not what she’d call exciting. They’d made camp near a particularly treacherous cave-in, the party too tired to tackle the giant heap of rubble after a long day’s hike. And she was tired - exhausted even - yet sleep eluded her.

To her left she could hear Varric softly snoring, and to her right lay the bundle of blankets that was Anders. He was so still that she watched intently for several long moments to make sure she could make out the rise and and fall of his breath.

She shifted her hip away from yet another sharp rock, and let her gaze rest on the mage. She couldn’t understand him, really. There was no question that she’d made her interest in him very clear, and unless she was a fool, he was not immune to her charms. So why was he so reticent? He’d deftly avoided every attempt she’d made to initiate even a simple kiss, so much so that she was beginning to wonder if maybe he just wasn’t attracted to women in at all. The only lover she knew of Anders had been Karl, and she’d witnessed for herself that he had no trouble expressing affection in that quarter.

Hawke sighed and shifted again, this time not because of the hard stone beneath her, but because she’d begun to imagine Anders pulling her close as he’d done with Karl. Her mind went on to conjure all the things she’d done with Isabela, but this time there was a blond mage hovering above her, his skilled fingers running smoothly over her hips as his mouth descended to the tip of her breast.

A soft moan escaped her lips, causing Anders to stir. He rolled over, and now his face was visible in the eerie cavern light. She felt her fingers tingle with the urge to touch him, and her hand seemed to lift of its own accord.

Hawke nearly gasped when his eyes flew open and his gaze locked with hers. Maker, had he read her thoughts? Would he now reach out and…

His lips parted, but the word he said was the absolute furthest thing from her mind.

“Darkspawn.”

 

* * *

 

Hawke knew now why Bartrand had insisted they all sleep in their boots. She’d barely had time to stand and procure her daggers before she heard the first ear-splitting screech of the creatures rapidly approaching the camp. From the corner of her eye, she saw a glowing blur of Fenris running toward a side tunnel, his long sword held high over his shoulder.

“Amber!” shouted Anders over the noise of the camp springing to life. “Back there! Go!” He was pointing at Bodhan’s small cart, furthest away from the threat.

“You’re kidding, right?” Hawke said, and twirling her blades, she took off at a run toward Fenris.

“Balls,” muttered Anders, and lifting his staff, he followed her into the fray.

Darkspawn were pouring out of the tunnel now, their malformed faces twisted in fury. For a split second Hawke seemed to forget how to use her weapons as she took in the sheer horror of the blighted creatures.

It was Fenris’ voice that broke her stupor. “Hawke!” he shouted in a tone that she knew all too well. They’d fought together for so long, that only the slightest gesture or single word was required to tell her what he wanted.

She set her sights on the elf’s position, then threw a smoke bomb into the midst of his attackers. Seconds later, she was at his back, repelling the darkspawn’s rusted blades with a skill that was second nature to her.

“Left!” shouted Fenris as his blade swung to the right, cutting through three of them in one arc, sending gore and black blood flying into the air around them. Hawke cut left and brought both of her daggers down into the back of a short, squat darkspawn, who’d been aiming for Fenris’ legs. The creature fell with a grunt and a thud.

Just as the smoke was dissipating, lightning bolts rained down on the horde emerging from the tunnel, temporarily blinding Hawke. Damn, she wasn’t used to fighting with a mage, and her vision had adjusted to the dim light of the caverns. She took a step back as a skeletal face suddenly appeared right in front of her, and she felt a flash of terror as she realized it would be on her before she could react. It was then she heard the whistling of an arrow miss her head by inches and hit the darkspawn directly between its eyes.

“One for the dwarf!” Varric cheered, as he let loose another bolt.

“Oh shit,” she heard Anders shout from behind her. “Emissary! Emissary coming!”

Hawke had only a vague idea that darkspawn emissaries used some sort of corrupted magic, but little else. She wished she’d paid more attention during their planning sessions, but for now, all she could was to use her innate skills. With no protection against spells, she chose to drop and roll into the shadows near the tunnel’s mouth, hoping to gain the advantage by coming at the thing from behind. The emissary seemed impossibly tall, and she was judging if she could possibly jump high enough to stab it in the neck, when the darkspawn began to wave its arms and shriek. Electric fire filled Hawke’s veins, and a slow numbness crawled up her arms.

_Oh shit_ , she thought, _better aim for the knees._

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Lovely Readers! We just wanted to take the time to thank you for the recent kudos - they really mean a lot to us. As Amber’s story continues to evolve into ever more complex forms, we hope you’ll take the time to drop us a comment and let us know what you think. If you’ve kept up with us this far, we offer our sincere thanks, and hope that you’re enjoying the story!


	17. Chapter 17

With the emissary now on the scene, the battle shifted from offensive aggression to a defensive survival. Hawke readied herself to strike, even with her arms half numb, but she was outwitted by the darkspawn. The creature created a shield around itself seconds before Hawke attacked, and the momentum she'd gained crashed into the shield, repelling her backward. With a loud thump, she slammed hard against the stone wall.

"Amber!" Anders voice carried above the crackles of lightning as he watched Hawke go down.

"Cover Fenris!" Varric yelled to Anders, while at the same time Fenris charged with unprecedented speed toward the emissary. Anders fought the overwhelming urge to assist Hawke. Instead, he did as Varric said and dispelled the magic around the creature, thus dropping its shield and allowing Fenris to land a blow directly to the darkspawn's back.

Hawke was back on her feet within seconds, full of rage, which she unleashed on the emissary. Between her twin daggers and Fenris' broadsword, the creature stood little chance. Both executed relentless thrusts towards the larger creature. It lashed out at both of them, narrowly missing Fenris. Hawke dodged out of the way, leaping to the side of the emissary to avoid its attack. So focused was she on the emissary, she didn't see the darkspawn that came from the tunnel behind it, until a sharp pain exploded in her arm where it hit her with with a crude mace.

"A little help here?" she called out, as she rolled backward, closer toward Anders and Varric.

"Ready Blondie?" Varric asked of Anders, nodding toward the two darkspawn. Anders saw what he was referring to as Varric loaded his precious Bianca with several arrows. "Might want to move, Elf!"

The lyrium markings embedded in Fenris' flesh began to glow brighter as he strengthened his ghost ability. "Do it!" he yelled, defensively stopping the two darkspawn creatures from advancing forward with wide, arcing swings of his sword.

Anders hesitated, not wishing to harm the elf, but Varric knew exactly what that ability of Fenris' was capable of. "Ice the bastards," Varric called to Anders.

In response, the mage tapped into his remaining mana to bring a heavy blizzard down around the creatures. Seconds later, Varric released his hail of arrows, shattering the frozen darkspawn, sending large chunks flying into the air. Anders was stunned that not only had Fenris been somehow immune to his blizzard spell, but Varric's arrows appeared to almost go through the elf, as if he wasn't even there. It was Hawke's voice calling out to him that broke his concentration on Fenris.

"Is that all of them?" Hawke asked, leaning against a stone wall to catch her breath.

The former Warden tapped into the taint within him in an attempt to feel any other threats in the immediate area. "We're good for now," he told the group when he could sense nothing nearby, and he secured his staff on his back. "The corpses should be burned, along with any clothing that may have darkspawn blood on it."

Varric and Bartrand began ordering the mercenaries around for cleanup duty. Fenris offered to take Hawke's daggers to cleanse them of any tainted blood. "You should burn that shirt," he told her, noticing the blood on the cloth.

"If you want me naked Fenris, you have only to ask," she joked as she handed him her weapons.

"I am aware," he replied with little enthusiasm.

Hawke couldn't help but laugh. "Way to make a woman feel good about herself, Fenris," she muttered, shaking her head.

"Ah, would you like to add that phrase to the job description?" he asked dryly. " _Compliment Amber at least once a day_ , would that suffice?"

"Silly elf," she said, and moved toward the cart of supplies. Fishing her bag from the heap of stuff, she began searching for the extra clothes she had packed. She didn't need to turn around to know Anders had followed her, and she smiled inwardly.

"What was the point of hiring the additional support if none of them assisted in that fight?" Anders asked, his frustration growing as he thought on how many times Hawke was nearly injured. "They just stood there, useless lumps."

"They aren't soldiers," Hawke said, and shrugged. "Besides, I'd rather they burn the corpses than have that duty myself, to be honest," she replied, finally successful in finding a clean shirt among her belongings. She pulled it out with a shake. "Though if this keeps up, I'll run out of clothing fairly quickly."

"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice low and concerned. "You took a few good hits back there."

"I'm still standing, so must be," she told him with a forced grin, because truthfully she was feeling a bit battered. "Though I can't say the same for my favorite shirt. Stupid darkspawn."

"Let me look at that," Anders said, noticing the blood on her arm for the first time.

"It's fine, really. It barely grazed me." Hawke tried to brush it off as nothing more than a scratch. " My blood, not darkspawn blood, so don't worry."

"Amber," Anders sighed as he said her name. "Please. It's one thing if you're in a scuffle at the docks and claim it's only a scratch, but down here even the smallest of wounds can turn deadly if touched by darkspawn blood, and we're surrounded by it." He studied her arm carefully. "But I agree, the blood isn't tainted."

She had no choice but to concede, the sound of concern in his voice pulling at her heart. She moved closer to him and pulled back the blood soaked sleeve of her shirt to reveal the wound. "See? Looks worse than it really is."

Anders held her arm in the palm of one hand as he dipped a cloth into water with the other. He began wiping the blood from her skin with soft gentle strokes. When he'd cleansed her of the crimson liquid, he could see that the wound was indeed small. "You're shaking," he noticed.

"The rush of battle I suppose," she replied. It had been intense, and exhilarating, and being so close to Anders now, she was also  _excited_. There had been so many moments between them when they were this close, so near that first kiss she had been imagining for many weeks now, and although perhaps a foolish thought so soon after a fight, she wondered if now may finally be the time to seize that moment.

A warm tingling sensation pulled her from her fantasy as Anders began to heal her. His magic danced beautifully over her skin, the soft white glow enhancing the features of his face as they stood in the shadows. She was captivated with the way the light of his magic reflected in his eyes, so much so that she didn't hear him when he spoke her name.

"Amber?" he repeated, his gaze now locked with hers.

"Kiss me," Hawke whispered. She hadn't meant to say the words aloud, but found she had no regret that she had done so. She brought her free hand to his face, cupping his cheek and moved her thumb slowly across his lips. "I want you to kiss me."

The gentle way in which she touched him caused all previous resolve within Anders to melt away, like frost under a bright morning's sun. His heart raced as he met her soft lips with his own, a gentle, chaste kiss at first. He paused for a moment, his forehead pressed to hers, unsure whether or not to continue; the knowledge of how this could only end badly weighed heavily on his mind. But when she leaned into him and returned his kiss with one of her own, Anders knew he needed more. When her lips pressed gently onto his, the last of his control shattered. He pushed for more, and she obliged.

Hawke felt the warmth of his tongue slip between her lips, felt the heat of his breath mix with hers. A soft moan escaped her as they continued to explore their new intimate connection. It was so much more than she ever could have imagined, gentle yet with a hint of urgency. Her eyes fluttered closed, lost in the passion he poured into that kiss. Her body flooded with warmth, desire, and a desperate need to claim him as her own.

It took all of his willpower to pull away, but Anders knew this wasn't the time, nor the place, for such distractions. "I should see to the others," he said, releasing her arm and taking a step back. "I doubt you were the only one hurt."

Hawke couldn't hide her disappointed frown that he needed to leave her, but she understood. Ever the healer, it was one of the things she admired most about him. She cleared her throat and nodded, struggling to regain her composure. "Let me know if Fenris fights you on that, he can be stubborn."

"As stubborn as you?" he teased with a soft grin.

"Worse," she insisted, though she was thankful he hadn't resorted to his usual brooding self after their kiss. His smile melted her heart as he walked away, leaving her alone with her thoughts of what may have been, if only that kiss happened anywhere other than several feet below the surface.

* * *

"Time to learn some finesse, big boy," Isabela told Carver as she followed him down the dark stairwell.

"Watch your step, some of the boards are loose," he said, holding the candle lower so she could see better.

"Don't worry about me, I never trip unless I want to."

Carver was glad she couldn't see the slight flush he felt heat his cheeks. He'd been with more women that he could count, but there was something about his sister's friend that made him feel about twelve years old.

"What's down here anyway?" she asked as Carver began lighting the wall sconces. "Amber never brought me to the basement."

"A couple of storage rooms filled with moldy old junk, and a wine cellar that my father keeps locked up tight." He surveyed the cavernous space where they now stood. "But there's plenty of room here to practice." He watched Isabel sashay around the large room. "Look, I appreciate you coming here. Father has become a tyrant about keeping us all locked up in the estate."

"With good reason," she said, turning to face him. "You've all been lucky so far, especially Amber surviving that knife wound." Isabela shuddered, and the expression on her face was more serious than he'd ever seen it. For all her flirtatious and indiscreet ways, Carver started to think maybe Isabela actually cared about his sister.

"It's really over between you and Amber?" he blurted, and then could have kicked himself for his loose tongue.

Isabela studied him for a few minutes and then replied, "Your sister is the best person I've ever known. We had a good time in bed and out of it." She took a step closer to him and ran a painted nail lightly down his cheek. "But, we were never in love."

For some reason, her words made Carver very uncomfortable. He'd never been in love, either. With anyone. What must that be like?

He was relieved, however, when Isabela winked at him and pulled her daggers from her back. "Ready for a little sword play?"

Carver pulled his own short sword from its sheath. It glowed faintly green in the dim light, and he admired its craftsmanship, once again. He really should write to Ser Carver and thank him.

"Head out of the clouds, sweet thing," Isabela said, poking his newly purchased leather breastplate with the tip of her dagger. "Time to have some fun."

For nearly an hour the two sparred, and though Carver hated to admit it, if she'd meant to kill him, he'd have been dead at least three or four times by then. He held a hand up and wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. "Maybe this is pointless," he said. "I'm okay with the stabbing part, but I can't block your thrusts worth a shit."

"Mmmm," Isabela purred. "There's more than one way to thrust, you know."

"I'm serious, Isabela. In a real fight, I'd be bleeding all over the floor right now, and you know it."

She sighed heavily, and sheathed her daggers. "Come here," she said.

"What?" he asked warily, but closed the distance between them, anyway.

"Here," she said, turning him so his back was to her. Her long arms snaked around his torso and and her hands took ahold of his wrists. "Maker, you're as stiff as a board! Loosen up!" She shook his wrists in emphasis.

With her voluptuous figure pressed tightly up against his back, Carver thought she was more right than she knew. The unwanted stirring her nearness caused was making him highly uncomfortable. He tried to relax the muscles in his arms, but apparently not enough to satisfy his teacher.

Her warm breath floated up to his ear, as she asked, "Why so tense? You should be warmed up by now." He could swear she pressed herself against him even more tightly.

"I'm trying, dammit," he snarled. How was he supposed to relax when she was rubbing all over him? Or at least, that's how it felt.

Isabela laughed. "Something tells me you like to be in charge in the bedroom." Her hands tightened on his wrists, and she suddenly squealed with glee. "I just had the best idea!"

Carver groaned, remembering the barrel. Her ideas usually left him in pain.

In a flash, she'd taken his sword and propped it up against the wall. "Until you loosen up, you'll never do better than hack and slash," she said. "Precision comes from a relaxed focus, which you apparently have never learned." Isabela grabbed his hand and led him toward the wall. "Voila!" she said, seeming very pleased.

Carver could see nothing but some rusty old handcuffs, left over from the days when Tevinter magisters kept their slaves locked in the basement. "What? You want me to punch the bricks?"

"Don't be an idiot," she said, but her tone remained playful. Before he realized what she had in mind, she lifted his wrist and locked it into one of the cuffs.

"Hey! What do you think you're doing?" he snapped, tugging at the chain that now held him securely to the wall. While he was tugging futilely at the handcuff, Isabela snagged his other hand and had it locked up as well. "Maker's balls! There's no keys to these things!" he shouted.

"Now, now tough guy, no worries. There hasn't been a lock invented that I can't pick."

"So you say! But what happens when I'm stuck down here because you  _can't_?"

"Tsk," she murmured, her hands now working on the straps of his leathers. "Be still. I'm in charge now."

"Wait, you're not… what are you doing? Stop that!"

"If you don't be quiet, I'll have to find a gag for that mouth of yours," she said, smiling broadly "This is where I teach you to relax."

What seemed like hours later, Carver felt more relaxed than he ever had in his entire life. After his initial embarrassed protests, he soon realized that letting Isabela be in charge was not necessarily a bad thing, In fact, quite the opposite. The things she had done…

"Feel nice and loose?" Isabela murmured against his chest.

"My wrists are a bit sore," he grumbled playfully. True to her word, Isabela had picked the old, rusted locks somewhere in the middle of their exertions. And then things had  _really_ gotten interesting.

"Good, now let's try again," she said, and wriggled herself away from him. She stood and held a hand to help him up.

"What about our clothes?" he asked as she handed him his sword.

"No need for those just yet." She winked at him, and once again stood behind him in the same position as before. "Much better," she agreed. "Now, don't resist. Let me guide you."

With some effort, Carver tried to ignore the soft female flesh pressing up against him, and focused on allowing Isabela to move him through a series of moves. He was amazed at how fluidly she was able to manipulate him now, and even more miraculous was that after a while, he was able to replicate what she taught him exactly, all on his own.

"You know, you might want to get a small shield. It could really improve your defensive abilities," she said as she watched him practice. "But, all in all, you've done very well today and deserve a reward."

Carver turned, and once again noticed that they were both still very much undressed. "Reward?" he croaked.

In response, Isabela closed the distance between them and kissed him thoroughly and deeply. "And that's just the start," she said, laughing.

By the time they returned upstairs and Isabela left, Carver was indeed very rewarded. There was a tiny seed of some new feeling growing inside of him, and he spent the time as he bathed and changed his clothes trying to figure out what it was. Finally, it was his own face in the mirror while he shaved that gave it away. He was perpetually grinning, it seemed. Maker, could it be true? Was he… happy? If this is how it felt to be sober, he wished he'd figured it out a long time ago. Better late than never, he thought, and whistling, went down to have dinner with his family.

* * *

_Q,_

_Your recent, fumbling attempts have put me in a very precarious position. That Gamlen Amell is dead made things even worse. The Peacekeeper has his family either completely locked away, or out of the city entirely. Sending henchmen to do what you should have done yourself was imbecilic and incompetent. Although one of your minions is dead by his own hand, the other could easily fall under suspicion. And what of G? What was his role in all this? Consider getting rid of him. With M's precious daughter out of our reach, he is only a liability._

_We must retreat and replan. Otherwise, the whole thing could come crashing down on our heads. Take no further action until you hear from me. We can meet in the usual place in a week or two. I will send word as soon as I am able._

_O_


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The danger and intrigue continue to accelerate in this chapter - it's one we both love, so we hope you all enjoy it! We've incorporated so many characters with new and different roles into this story, we thought it might be fun to ask you if there's someone you'd like us to bring into the story for some fun with Amber and company! Let us know, and we'll give it a shot :) As always, thanks for the reviews, favs and follows, and thanks for reading!

The nights were getting cold, but Cullen dared not risk a fire. He'd watched from a distance as Samson and his partner slipped into the crumbling entrance of the Deep Roads not long after Hawke's party. He couldn't allow too much time to pass before he followed, or he would risk losing them. If he went in prematurely, however, he would most certainly be caught.

He was new to this kind of subterfuge; his templar training had done nothing to prepare him for this mission. And, once he was actually in the Deep Roads, there would inevitably be darkspawn - another thing for which he was unprepared.

After a quick prayer for the Maker to guide him, he made his way to the partially collapsed entrance. He could hear nothing but the distant dripping of water, and inside the cavern was only darkness. Setting his pack on the ground, Cullen opened it and searched for the enchanted light the Peacekeeper had given him just before he left Kirkwall. The small sphere fit easily in his palm, and once he opened the latch and slid the outer shell away, it glowed with a soft, milky light. It was barely enough to see by, but was unlikely to attract attention from unwanted sources.

Moving to close the pack, a faint glimmer from inside caught his eye. He reached in and pulled out the miniature Bethany had give him after the attack at the Rose.

"Take this," she'd said as she pressed the tiny portrait into his hand. "And I'll be with you in the dark places."

He held the glowing globe closer to the miniature painting of Bethany, its intricate gold frame gleaming. Whoever had done the picture certainly had some skill. They'd captured her pretty features perfectly, and he felt a pang in his heart.  _This wasn't supposed to happen,_ he thought. But an impulse had him bring the portrait to his lips, where he pressed a soft kiss onto her image. Silly and pampered she may often be, but she was also passionate in a way he never would have guessed. Under the facade of social snobbery, beat the heart of a true Hawke. He grinned. Or so he liked to think.

Placing the small treasure back in his pack, he carefully made his way under the earth. It wasn't long before he heard voices ahead. One was certainly the rough draw of Samson. As quietly as he could, he approached close enough to make out their words without being seen.

"... at a slow pace. Don't seem to be in any hurry," Samson said.

"My understanding is we get paid the same no matter how long it takes," replied the other raspy voice, which most definitely carried a strong Ferelden accent. "Just don't lose them."

"No chance of that," Samson replied. There were a few moments of silence when all Cullen could hear was the scraping of metal, before he spoke again. "So,  _Nathaniel Howe_ , you never explained why you took this job in the first place."

"That's right, I didn't," Nathaniel said.

"Well then I'm asking," Samson pushed.

Another silence, then. "It's complicated. Suffice it to say that I have no love for the Amells, and by extension, Hawkes."

"Bad love affair?" Samson snickered.

"With that whore?" he asked. "No. The so-called Hero of Ferelden slaughtered my family. She will pay dearly for that, as well as all those associated with her."

Samson only grunted, and their footsteps resumed.

Cullen followed them through the darkness.

* * *

Malcolm sat in the Council Room with Viscount Dumar and First Enchanter Orsino as they waited for Meredith's return. On the table before them were the documents and the dagger provided by guardsman Hendyr, as well as the duty roster for Ser Wesley Vallen.

Arriving in Kirkwall at the beginning of the Fifth Blight with his soldier wife, Ser Wesley had immediately reported to the Knight Commander and been swiftly established at the Gallows. Meredith had always seemed eager to acquire more templars.

His records were undistinguished. No awards or commendations, and from interviews with his templar brothers, Malcolm had learned the man had a reputation for an extremely pious attitude and somewhat of a persecution complex. Wesley had often expressed dissatisfaction with how Meredith ran Kirkwall's templars, constantly comparing her methods, in an unfavorable light, to those of other Knight Commanders under which he had served.

In other words, a malcontent.

His closest friends in the Order had been those well known for their harsh treatment of mages. Not a promising career or a likeable fellow, surely. Was it enough to indict him of being complicit in the crimes against his family? Meredith certainly thoughts so, and Orsino seemed nearly gleeful they'd found the culprit. Malcolm knew Orsino too well, and was sure the First Enchanter's reaction was partly founded on relief that attention had been diverted from him. After the demon attacks on the Gallows and at the Rose, Malcolm's suspicions had definitely been directed toward Orsino. Yet, scattered among the parchments on the table was a signed confession from a known blood mage that Ser Wesley Vallen had ordered him to summon those demons. The evidence seemed irrefutable.

As usual, Dumar nodded his head and agreed with the loudest voice. Malcolm suppressed a sigh. What he wouldn't give for a viscount with some brains and honest authority. He carried so much of Dumar's responsibility himself. A proper viscount would ease Malcolm's burdens tremendously.

Meredith entered the chamber then, and took her place next to Malcolm. "They are bringing in Vallen now," she said, and Malcolm noticed the absence of his honorific. No  _Ser Wesley_ , just Vallen.

Minutes later, an escort of templars surrounding him, a pale and panicked Vallen was escorted into the chamber. As his Knight Commander, Meredith took charge of the proceedings. How that woman loved to have the upper hand.

"Wesley Vallen," said Meredith upon standing. "You are charged with three counts of conspiracy to commit murder against the family of Peacekeeper Malcolm Hawke. What say you?"

"No," Wesley croaked, visibly shaking. "I didn't… I had nothing to do with those crimes!" He attempted to step closer, but the templars around him grabbed ahold of his arms. "This is a mistake, I swear to you…"

"Silence," said Meredith. "The council will now review the evidence against you."

It was a long and grueling three hours, during which the documents were analyzed and witnesses called. When Wesley was interrogated by Meredith, he was hardly coherent and could only repeat that someone had framed him, instead of directly addressing the charges. Malcolm couldn't decide if he was terrified because he'd be caught, or was simply crazy. Either way, the man did nothing to mitigate the case against him. About halfway through the proceedings, a grim-faced guardsman Aveline slipped into the chamber with Donnic at her side. She, however, was never called upon to speak on her husband's behalf.

By the time Meredith pronounced the verdict of "Guilty as charged," Malcolm himself was convinced of the man's culpability. The most persuasive evidence having been testimony by Orsino's mages on Vallen's cruel treatment of those under his charge. One young mage, Ella, had openly sobbed as she described the many indecent incidents perpetrated by Wesley upon her person over the years. More damning proof of his criminal and deviant behavior.

"Death by hanging," Meredith announced. "Sentence to be carried out at dawn."

Wesley's protests resumed as the templars practically dragged his resisting body from the chamber. Malcolm watched as a few minutes later Donnic led Aveline away, a protective arm around her shoulders.

Despite the relief he felt that his family would no longer be in danger, Malcolm excused himself and left the Gallows with a bad taste in his mouth from the afternoon's events. He did not look forward to watching a man hang, unlike Orsino and Meredith, who had finally found some common ground in sentencing a man to die.

As Peacekeeper, Malcolm always felt such an outcome a personal failure. He should have been more aware, noticed what was taking place almost under his very nose. After what he'd learned, he would have to investigate the other templars who'd been implicated for their cruel treatment of the mages under their care. Wearily, he boarded the boat back to Hightown to share the news with his family. He missed Amber terribly, and couldn't wait for her to return to him.

* * *

"I always knew he was a prat," Aveline told Donnic once they were back in her lodgings. "But a murderer? I still can't take it in."

"Are you alright?" Donnic asked in a solicitous tone. "Can I get you some wine to settle yourself?"

She smiled for the first time all day. "Yes, that would be lovely Donnic. Thank you."

Aveline began to remove her dress armor once Donnic had left the room. Her mind raced. How could one person possibly feel so conflicted? Shamefully, part of her felt relieved that she could soon be with Donnic, the man she truly loved. Another part was horrified that she'd spent so many years with a husband who she had never really known at all. And mixed in between the two was a pervading sense of loss. Despite all his faults, their constant bickering and the fact she had fallen out of love with him long ago, Wesley was her husband, and at dawn he would be dead. No matter how just his sentence, seeing his lifeless body dangling from the end of a rope was not something she'd ever wanted to see.

"Here we are," Donnic said, carrying in a tray with two wine glasses and a bottle.

Aveline accepted hers gratefully, and emptied half the glass at once.

"Better?" Donnic smiled at her.

"Not yet," she said, gesturing that he pour more into her glass. "But it helps."

"Will you go to the Gallows tomorrow?" he asked her.

Aveline took a long, deep breath. "It's my duty. As acting Guard Captain, and as his wife."

"I will go with you," Donnic said.

"No," Aveline replied. "I mean, as much as your presence would be a comfort, we mustn't be seen together too often. It would be unseemly for rumours to start flying so soon."

"But as a guardsman?" Donnic began.

"As a guardsman you will do your own duty and report to the Keep as you should."

Donnice couldn't hide his disappointment as he took a sip of his wine.

Feeling as if she'd been too harsh, Aveline brought a hand to his cheek. "Thank you, Donnic. I could never have made it through this without you."

His expression softened, but his eyes still seemed troubled. "Of course, my love," he said. "Anything for you."

* * *

"Delicious breakfast Bodhan," Hawke said as she finished the remaining meat on her plate. "How you manage to create such a feast down here, and so quickly, is beyond me!"

The merchant dwarf bowed, his smile beaming with pride. "You learn a lot of tricks on the road Messere, and my boy and I have been tried and true travelers for many years." He retrieved their plates and was gone as quickly as he'd arrived, cleaning up after the morning meal.

"Did you know Bodhan and his son travelled with the Hero of Ferelden?" Varric asked Hawke.

"Really?" Hawke raised a brow. "Oh, how Mother gushed when an Amell became the Hero. You'd think it was her own daughter the way she carried on about it to the other nobles." Hawke gave a slight snort. "Although personally, I've never even met the woman."

Varric laughed. "That sounds exactly like something Leandra would do."

Hawke rolled her eyes. "Pompous and annoying, truly. \Anything for a bump in status, I suppose." She eyes drifted to Anders as he moved through the camp.

"Never thought I'd see the day Rosebud pines for a man," Varric joked, following her gaze.

"I'm not pining," she responded with a frown. "I'm admiring."

"Is that what the kids are calling it these days?" Varric asked. He debated inwardly whether or not to encourage this blossoming romance. On the one hand, it would make for a great story. But on the other, Malcolm may kill him. He quickly decided a good story was worth anything the Peacekeeper may inflict upon him. "You know, after that attack yesterday, a small scouting party would be wise. Perhaps a pairing of a skilled rogue and a former Warden?"

Hawke grinned ear to ear at his suggestion. "I just so happen to know of a skilled rogue and a former Warden," she said as she rose to her feet. "How far ahead do you wager?"

Varric shrugged. "Maybe an hour and back? Unless you run into trouble, then hightail it back here immediately. Your father will have my head if anything happens to you."

She leaned down to kiss Varric on the cheek. "You, my good friend, are a genius. I shall see you soon!"

Varric watched as Hawke skipped toward Anders, grabbed his hand, and led him away from the expedition. He didn't miss the glare from Fenris as he too noticed their departure, but Varric brushed off the elf's disapproving stare. Hawke wasn't about to put herself or Anders in harm's way, and Varric had a sneaking suspicion that Anders wouldn't allow any harm to come to Hawke. Satisfied, he pulled his leather journal from his pack and began making notes.

* * *

Huddled behind a large boulder, Nathaniel and Samson watched as Hawke and Anders separated from the group. "I couldn't have planned this better," Nathaniel whispered, adjusting the bow on his back as he stood.

"I just can't believe we've found them already," Samson said. "They must be moving at a snail's pace for us to have caught up so quickly."

"Larger the group, the slower the progress," Nathaniel said "Judging by the evidence left on the path we took to get here, they've endured a battle, as well as several meals and at least one stop for sleep. None of which we have had the pleasure of."

"How do you propose we get around the group to reach the girl?" Samson asked. "It doesn't look like the rest of them are moving any time soon."

Nathaniel nodded toward the tunnel entrance beside them. "That tunnel runs parallel to their current position. We take it in the same direction, we'll find them."

"Or get lost," Samson said, fumbling through his satchel for his map.

Nathaniel placed a hand on his to stop him. "I know what I'm doing," he assured the templar. "I've memorized a far better set of maps than your commander provided. Let's move."

Samson shrugged and allowed Nathaniel to take the lead, hoping his trust wasn't misplaced.

A few minutes later, Cullen quietly followed the two into the tunnel.

* * *

Leandra sat with her hands in her lap, the food on the plate in front of her as yet untouched.

"You should eat something," Malcolm told her. "Starving yourself won't bring Gamlen back."

"Oh Malcolm! How could you be so cruel!" And Leandra began to cry in earnest.

Carver's fork hit the plate with a clang. "Yes, Mother, because you two were just so  _close_. When's the last time you even saw him? Or asked how he was? Invited him to one of your fancy parties? He's been hidden away in Lowtown for years without a second thought. His death means nothing to you."

"Carver," Malcolm said in a warning tone. Really, could his day get any worse? A family squabble was the last thing he needed.

"No," Carver said in frustration. "I don't know why she's putting on this grieving sister act, but that's what it is. An act."

"How dare you!" Leandra said, her voice hoarse from crying.

"That's enough!" said Malcolm. "The man is dead. Your mother can grieve as she wishes, and you will show her some respect."

Carver grumbled something incoherent, and returned to his food. Leandra picked up her fork and began to push the potatoes around on her plate.

"Thank you," Malcolm said with a weary sigh. He regretted his careless words, a sure consequence of his trying day at the Gallows. And even though Carver was justified, there was no point in upsetting Leandra further. Things were tense enough in the house these days. His son was, however, absolutely correct in his assessment of his mother. It had been months since his wife had set eyes on her brother. This display was like everything else about Leandra Amell Hawke. A brother dies, so her response is a socially acceptable grief.

In an attempt to divert attention away from Gamlen, Malcolm turned to Bethany. "You're quiet this evening, daughter," he remarked. It was true, he'd never seen her quite so composed and serious. No nonsense about balls and gowns and the usual frippery.

Bethany gave him a weak smile. "I'm fine, Father. Gamlen's death is sad, but I won't pretend it affects me overmuch."

"Bethany!" exclaimed Leandra.

Malcolm sighed again. So much for changing the subject.

Bethany looked at her mother kindly, and laid a hand on her wrist. "I'm sorry, Mother, but it's true. Uncle Gamlen made no effort to endear himself to any of us. I'm more concerned over Amber and…" Bethany paused, and Malcolm could see a soft sheen of tears in her eyes. "And the rest of her… friends."

Of course, Malcolm thought. Bethany was worried about Cullen. Choosing his words carefully, he said, "Amber's friends are very capable, my dear. I'm sure they will all return to us safely."

The smile Bethany gave her father this time was filled with gratitude. "Thank you, Father. I'm sure you're right."

As if ashamed that she'd forgotten about her other daughter, Leandra straightened in her chair and resumed her usual haughty demeanor. "I'll just be glad when Ambrosia returns and everything goes back to normal."

Malcolm murmured an agreement, but inwardly he doubted that anything would ever be normal again. He had a deep foreboding that their real troubles were just beginning, even with the news he was about to share with his family.

"No one has asked about the proceedings today," Malcolm said. "It should relieve you all to know that Ser Wesley Vallen has been convicted of attempting to..." He could not bring himself to say the word murder. "For his attempts to harm our family."

Equal expressions of happy delight came from Leandra and Bethany, but Carver only looked thoughtful.

"What is it son?" Malcolm asked.

Pulled from his distraction, Carver shook his head. "That is good news," he said. "Is our prison sentence over then?"

"Yes, I suppose it is, but I advise you all to use your wits and stay alert."

"Of course, Father" Bethany said, but Leandra's eyes lit up and she immediately started chattering away about plans to attend Lady de Launcet's tea the next day.

In that moment, Malcolm missed Amber more than ever.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Sorry for the slight delay - thank you for reading and we hope you enjoy!

 

Walking through the Deep Roads was a lot less romantic than Hawke had originally imagined. Gray stone, slick surfaces covered in Maker knew what, and the dampness that left a chill in her bones did nothing to help create the mood she'd hoped for when she'd set off with Anders alone.

At first they had moved cautiously, weapons at the ready, prepared for whatever danger they might face. But as they moved further away from the camp, that initial excitement and anticipation had worn off; now all she could focus on was Anders, and what she'd much rather be doing with their time together. When he stopped to retrieve his waterskin from his pack, she continued to stare, wondering if, yet again, she would have to make the first move. His reticence would have made her wonder if he was interested in her at all, if it weren't for the way he'd so passionately kissed her before.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Anders asked as they paused to drink. He'd been unusually quiet the whole time, and she was glad he'd finally broken the silence because it gave her a chance to tease him a bit.

Hawke shrugged, though the flush on her cheeks made it difficult to deny where her thoughts were. "No reason," she told him nonchalantly. "Just enjoying our walk, out here alone, away from everyone…"

"What, did you expect me to just throw you up against the wall?" Anders asked. "Begin panting like a mabari while I kissed you?"

She couldn't contain her laughter at the image he described, but wasn't about to turn it down if he was offering. "For starters?" she suggested.

Anders pinched the bridge of his nose. "Maker, you are incorrigible."

"Would you want me any other way?" she asked, moving closer to him.

He looked into her hopeful eyes, and then his gaze moved toward her moistened lips. Unconsciously, he licked his own. "No," he whispered, as he realized he would not be at all opposed to kissing her again. In fact, the opposite was true. She couldn't know it, but half the reason he avoided looking at her or touching her was because he was afraid he would lose control - something he could not allow to happen, here of all places. But Maker, she was irresistible. Everything about her charmed or impressed him, but most of all  _excited_ him.

Hawke took his hand and placed it over her own heart. "Do you feel this?" she asked, closing the distance between them. "My heart races when I think of kissing you."

His hand resting just slightly above her breast conjured images that had his body aching with a long suppressed desire. Though meant as a joke at first, Anders now pushed Hawke against the wall and claimed her mouth, panting very much from desperate need. In that moment he hated the armor that separated her flesh from his, so he put everything he was feeling into his lips on hers, his tongue dancing with hers.

She returned his kiss with equal passion, wrapping her arms around his neck as she buried her fingers into his hair and held him close. His taste was exotic, yet achingly familiar at the same time, and oh so very delicious. This was something she could get used to, and very much wanted more of.

* * *

Waking up without a hangover was still a relatively new experience for Carver. He stretched and marveled once again at how much he'd accomplished in just a few short weeks. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and rubbed at the stubble on his face. There, sitting securely in its stand by the window, was his sword.  _His_  sword. He could hardly believe how attached he felt to it already, and how much he looked forward to his next lesson with Isabela. Yes, his life was rapidly changing, and miraculously, for the better. He need only think of Uncle Gamlen to know just how lucky he was.

Not much later, a freshly shaved Carver descended the stairway on his way to have breakfast. He couldn't wait to step out into the Kirkwall sunshine, and considered a trip to the Gallows to see about a shield as Isabela had recommended. Although she couldn't train him in its use, he thought about asking Ser Cullen. He was, after all a frequent visitor to the estate, though he hadn't seen him around just recently.

Just as he was passing the foyer, he heard a sharp rapping at the front door.

"Bloody hell," he mumbled. He stomach was screaming for food and he was in no mood to deal with one of his mother's snobbish friends.

He yanked open the door harder than was necessary, but instead of a fancily dressed lady, there stood a templar in full regalia.

"The Peacekeeper isn't here," Carver blurted. He'd never seen the man before and assumed a templar would be looking for his father.

"Good day to you too, young man," said the templar in a deep baritone. "Although the Peacekeeper is certainly a worthy man, I am in fact looking for his son, Carver." One bushy eyebrow lifted. "Might you be him?"

"Who's asking?" Carver replied suspiciously. What business could a templar have with him?

"Ser Maurevar Carver, " said the man with a slight bow.

"Ser... Carver? The guy who sent me the sword?" What was wrong with him? He sounded like a bumbling idiot. "Sorry, yes, please come in."

"Thank you," Ser Maurevar said as he entered the estate. "I take it you are Malcolm's son? You very much resemble him."

"Yes, I'm Carver," he replied.

"As am I," the templar said. "And I am indeed the  _guy_ who sent you Virnan."

"The sword has a name?" Carver asked. "Virnan?"

"It does," replied Ser Maurevar. "And if you will retrieve it, I will tell you what I know of its story."

Carver's stomach chose that moment to growl very loudly. "Care to join me for breakfast first?" he asked sheepishly.

Ser Maurevar suppressed a smile. "I'd be delighted."

During the meal, Carver learned that Ser Maurevar had travelled on business to Cumberland, and had then made the journey to KIrkwall at an invitation from Malcolm, in order to finally meet his namesake.

Finally settled in the study, Carver handed the sheathed blade to the templar, who pulled it free and held it aloft, twisting it this way and that as it gleamed in the morning sunshine. "Have you had occasion to use it?" he asked.

"Only once in a real fight," Carver replied. "But I've been practicing."

"New to swordplay are you?"

Carver squirmed uncomfortably, not wanting to admit to the templar how he'd misspent most of his youth. Instead of answering, Carver asked him, "Why does it glow with that green light?"

Setting the sword carefully on the table between them, Ser Maurevar took a moment to answer. "I'm afraid much of the blade's history is lost to the ages. Only it's name and a few vague rumors survived as it was passed from father to son."

"It sounds like an elven name," said Carver.

Ser Maurevar nodded. "Indeed it is.  _Virnan_ , the path of vengeance."

"Vengeance?" Carver shook his head. 'That still doesn't explain the weird glowing."

"As I said, I only know thin rumors, but it was told to me that it was enchanted by the elves long ago, before that art was lost to them. Supposedly, the sword draws on the power of the Fade, and is particularly effective against demons."

Carver thought that would explain the ease with which he was able to cut down the demons that attacked Bethany. "But you're a templar. Why would you give such a powerful weapon away? Wouldn't it be useful in your line of work?"

Ser Maurevar did not reply at first, his eyes resting on the sword. "It was, very useful. But it's been many years since I've done anything but feed the Order's bureaucracy." His eyes looked sad. "And, as I will never have children of my own, I thought it best to pass it down to the closest thing I have to family."

"You were close to my father, then?"

"Like brothers," Ser Maurevar agreed. "An unlikely friendship between a mage and a templar, so many have said, at least. But kindred souls care not for worldly titles."

Carver hardly knew how to respond, but he did his best. He had to admit he was thoroughly impressed by the templar, and wanted to show his gratitude properly. "Thank you, Ser Maurevar, for such a valuable gift. And I…" He swallowed hard, thinking of his wasted years of drinking and whoring. "I will do my best to live up to your name."

Ser Maurevar looked thoughtful before he replied, "Do not be misled by appearances, Carver. Even the most mighty among us struggle within ourselves against our baser natures." He laid a hand on Carver's shoulder. "It is the hardest battle any of us will ever fight."

* * *

Anders and Hawke had wandered the passages for nearly an hour. Their biggest discovery had been large spiderwebs and dust-filled halls; hardly the vast amounts of treasure Bartrand had described when they'd been on the surface. It wasn't until the cavern opened up into a large, spacious hall that Hawke felt any excitement. Well, since their kiss at least. She lifted a hand to her still tingling lips and smiled.

Large pillars were scattered along the area, and in the distance she could see a staircase. As they moved toward the steps, Hawke paused; something along the wall had caught her attention.

"Well then, this looks interesting," Hawke said as they approached a large door that stretched from floor to ceiling. "I almost didn't see it the way it blends into the rest of the place. I wonder what's inside?"

Anders furrowed a brow, shaking his head at her curiosity. "We really should head back," he told her. "Doesn't look like something we should explore alone."

Hawke laughed as she reached into her pocket for her lock picking tools. "On the contrary, this is something we very much should explore alone." Even if the room was empty, it held potential in her mind. More time alone with Anders in a secluded room was exactly what she had in mind. Of course, if it were filled with dwarven gold and jewels, that would just be an added bonus.

The blush on his cheeks told her he knew exactly what she was implying. "Amber, this is hardly the time or place…"

"And done!" she said when she heard the click of lock's mechanism shift. "Any unwelcome guests?" she asked before opening the door.

Anders concentrated for a moment as he felt for the presence of darkspawn. "I think we're okay," he said coming up behind her. "But be prepared for anything. We have no idea what's beyond that door."

Hawke grinned as she looked up at him. "Exactly. Isn't this exciting?" she asked as she pushed on the heavy door.

They entered what appeared to be a grand chamber, finely crafted within the stone. The walls were smooth, radiating a dim light from some unknown source. The door they entered through was the only way into the room from what they could see, and it was completely empty except for a large stone pedestal in its center. Atop the pedestal was some sort of carved figure made from what appeared to be a ruby red crystal.

Hawke whistled through her teeth. "Bet that's worth a pretty copper on the surface," she said, inching closer.

Anders held her arm to stop her. "Hold on a minute," he said. "We have no idea what that is. Let me check it out first."

"It's shiny, and sitting in a special, formerly locked room all by itself, which means it's worth a fortune," Hawke deduced.

"And no other dwarf thought to bring it to the surface and cash in? All the more reason to be cautious." Anders began to walk toward the pedestal. "Stay there," he warned Hawke again. "There may be traps."

Hawke folded her arms across her chest. "Really? And you don't think having the rogue beside you would be of some aid in that matter?"

His gaze remained fixated on the glowing red idol. "Magical traps," he clarified. "I can feel something coming from it, just not quite sure what it is."

She hadn't considered the possibility of magic. Considering dwarves weren't mages themselves, if it was guarded by such, perhaps there was good reason. Her father's voice sounded in her mind; when she was younger, he'd always warned all three of his children about the dangers of magic, and magical items especially. "Then maybe we shouldn't mess with it," Hawke suggested, suddenly feeling uneasy.

"Wise advice from the girl," a voice called from the entrance.

Anders turned to see who had entered the chamber. One man stood in the doorway, while another shadowy figure was sneaking up behind Hawke. "Amber!" he called to her.

But his warning was too late. Nathaniel grabbed Hawke from behind and roughly placed a dagger to her throat. "At last," he whispered in her ear. "I will have my vengeance."

Anders moved to intervene, but a smite from Samson laid him out hard against the stone floor. "Not another step, mage."

"Who are you?" Hawke asked, unable to turn to see her attacker's face.

"Someone who has been waiting a long time for this," Nathaniel told her. "Get the idol," he then said to Samson. "We need to be done here before the others come looking."

Hawke was about to ask Nathaniel what exactly he was referring to when a soft blue glow from Ander's direction distracted her. She knew from her Father's teachings that a smite would've temporarily prohibited him from using magic, but the light in his eyes suggested otherwise. There was something building within him, but it was unlike anything she had ever seen.

Samson, oblivious to the goings on behind him, moved toward the idol. "Hmm," he muttered to himself. "Some type of magic?" He could feel power radiating from the object, and with a gloved hand, removed it quickly from the pedestal. Seconds later, a loud rumble could be heard beneath the surface, and the whole room began to shake.

"A trap!" Samson yelled, shoving the idol in his satchel before leaping from the platform.

Stone began to fall from the splintering ceiling, and Hawke felt the pressure from the blade against her throat ease up slightly. She took advantage of the distraction and stomped on Nathaniel's foot, then whipped around and kneed him square in the groin. Pain shot through Nathaniel and he stumbled back, but not before backhanding Hawke across the face. "You bitch!" he growled as she fell backward.

A new power surged through the air as Anders stood, the tone in his voice, much lower and definitely sinister. "You will not touch her again!" he shouted before emitting a large flash of light toward Nathaniel. The man was pushed several feet back, landing hard against the stone wall of the room. The impact nearly knocked him unconscious.

Samson ran passed Hawke toward Nathaniel and then took his hand in an effort to help him regain his feet. "We need to get out of here," he said with urgency. "The entire room is caving in on itself!"

"No!" Nathaniel said, struggling to stand. He spat a dislodged tooth and some blood onto the floor. "She will die. She must!"

"She will!" Samson said, looking back at Hawke, who was still on the ground while the mage moved hurriedly in her direction. "So will we if we don't move, now!"

The room continued to shake violently as the two men scrambled toward the exit. Behind them, Anders reached Hawke and covered her with his body, a bright blue shield protecting them both from the larger chunks of rock that now fell all around them. Cracks began to form along the stone floor, and Samson and Nathaniel leapt over them to reach the door. Seconds after crossing the threshold, a huge thunderous sound could be heard behind them, followed by dust and rock cascading through the doorway.

Samson leaned against the wall, his hand held over his heart. "That was too close for my liking," he said through ragged breaths.

"I must be certain she is dead," Nathaniel growled, inspecting the rubble for a way through.

"She's dead," Samson said as the ground continued to shake beneath their feet. "If she's not crushed by now, she soon will be. Come on! Her friends will certainly come running with the all the racket that cave in made."

Nathaniel hesitated, eyes fixated on the fallen stone that now blocked their path into the chamber. Amidst the thunderous sound of falling rock, he could also hear the high pitched shrill of shrieks and the clanging of swords. "Darkspawn may be taking care of them for us," he said with a malicious grin.

"Good," Samson said. "Our chance to get out of here before we're all trapped. Can you run?"

"I have been for years," Nathaniel commented, ignoring the pain that lingered in his groin. "Let's go."

* * *

Malcolm was frowning over a parchment spread across his desk when his old friend walked in through the door of his office. It had been the worst sort of morning, watching a man hang for a crime he swore to the last he did not commit. Malcolm had never been so glad to see a friendly face.

"Maurevar!" he exclaimed, rising to greet the templar. "You old goat! How are you man?"

The two embraced, clapping each other hard on the back.

"You are a sight for sore eyes," Malcolm said, pulling back to get a good look at his friend. "When did you arrive?"

"Only this morning," Ser Maurevar replied. "Would have been here yesterday but the storm last night kept us from port. Saw a Qunari dreadnought smash against the rocks." He shook his head. "Dreadful sight. I don't know if any of them survived the wreck."

Malcolm glanced down at the missive on his desk. "Some apparently did. They are down at the docks, even now, demanding ships for their return to Par Vollen."

"What were they doing so near to Kirkwall?" Ser Maurevar asked. "Didn't know the Qunari had any interest in the Free Marches."

"I have no idea," said Malcolm. "But I will find out." He ran a hand over his brow. "I suppose I'll have to arrange temporary housing for them until I can sort this mess out."

"Wouldn't the viscount attend to such matters?"

Malcolm laughed without humor. "Dumar? He's a nice enough fellow, but I don't know how he manages to strap on his boots on in the morning."

Ser Maurevar studied Malcolm carefully before saying, "It seems like you could use the help of an old friend."

"That I could," Malcolm agreed. "But what am I thinking? After such a harrowing night, you must be half starved. Let me send for refreshments."

Ser Maurevar held up a hand. "No need, Malcolm. As it so happens, I broke my fast this morning with your son."

"You've met Carver?"

"That I did. He seems a fine young man," Ser Maurevar replied. "Although I'm afraid I caught him by surprise."

Malcolm chuckled. "That, my friend, is good to hear. Until very recently… Well, let's just say your gift played no small part in that development."

"Glad to help," Ser Maurevar replied. "The sword was only gathering dust in my trunk. It's good that it will be put to use."

The two men chatted amiably for a short time, discussing matters that could only be of interest to very old friends. After a time, Ser Maurevar said, "Carver saw me settled in at the estate, so my dear Peacekeeper, I am at your disposal."

"Good, good," replied Malcolm gratefully. "Perhaps you'd care to join me on a little trip to the docks?"

"With pleasure," Ser Maurevar said heartily. "It will be just like old times! Malcolm and Maurevar, working together to make things right."

Malcolm chuckled as the two men exited the room. "I'm afraid you'll have to spend at least a year in Kirkwall if you intend to fix all its ills."

"I've got nothing but time, my friend," Ser Maurevar replied with a grin.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet another chapter! Will Hawke and Anders escape the cave in? What happened to the others? And just what is Ser Maurevar doing in Kirkwall? Hmmm, you'll get a few answers, but not all. At least not yet ;) Thanks for reading!

"Anders?" Hawke croaked through dry, dust-caked lips. They should both be dead, but somehow Anders had managed to shield them as the ceiling finally collapsed. It was magic unlike anything she'd ever seen; the way his eyes burned with blue flame while bright, jagged lines of that same light tore through his skin. Even now, there were remnants of black smoke dissipating around his body. "Anders?" she repeated.

He still did not answer as he continued to hover over her, but with some relief she watched the eerie light fade from his eyes.

"Anders, what was that?" she asked.

He blinked several times before he actually seemed to see her. "Maker," he said scanning the debris piled all around them. He looked back at Hawke. "Amber, are you alright? Are you hurt?"

"I don't think so," she replied. "Whatever you did seems to have protected us." Hawke studied his face, which had now completely returned to normal. "What  _did_ you do?"

Instead of replying, Anders carefully maneuvered himself off of her. He stood and offered her a hand. "Let's make sure," he said, and checked her for injuries.

Hawke opened her mouth to protest, but then stopped herself. He was running his hands all over her body, checking for any damage. Despite their current predicament, she found herself enjoying his attention.

"No, only a few scratches," he said once he'd finished his inspection. He looked around them at the jumble of rocks and stones. The worst of it piled near where the door had once been. "How are we ever going to get out of here?"

"Anders!" Hawke practically shouted, and took ahold of his face so he would look at her. "Tell me what you did!"

"We really should try…"

She didn't let him finish. "The rocks aren't going anywhere," she said. "On the other hand, I'm standing here, alive and breathing, when I should be a corpse buried under this stuff." She gestured around them. "One minute you're fine, the next you're all glowy and full of rage, and now you're fine again? You really don't think I'm going to let this go without an explanation, do you?"

Anders pulled away and turned his back to her. "It's a long story."

Hawke settled herself on a large chunk of stone. "I have time," she said, cheekily.

He glanced back at the stubborn expression on her face and sighed heavily. "Fine. But you're not going to like it." Inwardly, he thought maybe it was for the best that she know. It would put a stop to the passion growing between them and save her a lot of future pain. Even as he began his tale, his heart sank at the thought of never kissing her again.

"When I was in Amaranthine with the Hero, we met a spirit of Justice in the Black Marsh," he said. "He helped us fight demons and darkspawn when we were all trapped in the Fade, and once we escaped, he came with us. Well, not on purpose actually. The evil Baroness, who was really a pride demon, sort of brought him through. And he did reanimate the corpse of this dead Grey Warden named Kristoff, so he wasn't just a spirit anymore…"

Hawke's eyes never left him as he went on to tell her of how he had become good friends with Justice, and how the spirit had encouraged him to do more in support of the plight of mages. It seemed Anders had never cared for much more than himself prior to meeting Justice, the way he told it, and the spirit had influenced him greatly during the time they'd spent together. When Kristoff's corpse began to decompose beyond repair, Anders had offered himself as a host. He'd merged with Justice in such a complete way that he could no longer tell where he ended and the spirit began.

The look of horror and disgust he'd expected to see on Hawke's face never appeared, however. Her pretty eyes grew round and those perfect lips parted in surprise, but instead of rejecting him, she stood and put a hand on his arm to stop his pacing.

"It was fine at first, but over time I noticed whenever I felt threatened, Justice would sort of… take over," Anders told her. "The anger I've held in check from being in the Circle, with the Wardens, it's shaped Justice more toward vengeance. I try so hard to keep calm, to control my emotions, because if I don't, he emerges...and he can be a danger to anyone around me. More and more I lose myself in him, and I fear the day I may lose myself completely."

"Oh Anders," she said, and the next thing he knew she had gathered him in her arms and was hugging him tightly.

Despite the danger they were in, and that they would probably die in this horrid place, for the first time in a very long time, Anders felt at peace.

* * *

Fenris extended his hand to Varric, assisting the dwarf in regaining his feet after he'd been knocked back by a darkspawn. Varric readily accepted the elf's assistance, retrieving Bianca before looking around them at the grim aftermath of battle.

A dozen or more of the tainted creatures had ambushed the camp after a thunderous boom sounded in the distance, causing loose pebbles to rain down all around them. The mercenaries had little time to react, having just finished their meals, and were lounging about like they were at a picnic. Most didn't even have their weapons within reach when the attack came. They were the first to die, defenseless and blindsided by the darkspawn. Fenris had shouted a warning, and done his best to intervene, but the men, in their panicked state, did little to assist in ensuring their survival. One by one they fell in bloody heaps to the ground, even after Varric had joined the fray with Bianca.

Varric now dutifully checked each body to see if any life yet lingered in the hired men. Every last one, from the newest recruit to their leader, were dead. The dwarf shook his head; he hadn't seen this much death in, well, ever. "None," he said to no one in particular. "No survivors." He then carefully inspected each fallen darkspawn to make certain they were dead as well.

Fenris was busy at the supply cart, salvaging anything that may be of use. In the midst of battle, the cart had been overturned, the weight of its contents crushing and killing the two mercenaries who had been near it. He set the cart upright, packs and provisions falling onto the two bodies as he did so. A bottle of wine rolled along the stone floor, and Fenris retrieved the unexpected treasure, opened it, and took a long, much needed swig.

A voice called out in the distance, startling both Fenris and Varric. They turned, weapons ready, to see it was only Bodahn and Sandal walking toward them. "Is it safe?" Bodahn asked in a shaky voice.

Varric lowered his crossbow as he walked toward the two. "Shit, I didn't think you made it out of here."

"Barely Messere," Bodahn replied. "If it wasn't for my boy here, we would've been done for."

Fenris and Varric exchanged a look, both wondering exactly how Sandal could have aided in their retreat. The boy could barely form a complete sentence, much less fight off a horde of darkspawn. But as he clapped excitedly and yelled "enchantment!", the two couldn't help their curiosity as Sandal led them down the corridor where he and Bodahn had hid during the fight. In the distance stood a large frozen statue of an ogre, poised to attack.

Varric whistled through his teeth at the sight of the giant creature. "You ain't kidding," he said as he imagined their quick deaths at the hands of such a beast. He turned to Sandal. "Your doing?"

"Enchantment," Sandal repeated with a smile.

"That's some boy you have there," Varric told Bodahn. "Is that thing going to thaw any time soon?"

"I can't rightly say," Bodahn said. "Never happened before."

"Let us not remain and find out," Fenris told them as he turned back toward their camp. "What became of your brother?" he asked Varric, handing the dwarf the bottle of wine.

Varric greedily drank as he shrugged. "I think I saw him run, but it's all a blur. He wasn't among the mercenaries."

"I suppose he is on his own, then," Fenris said carelessly. "I have had enough of this cursed place. "Let us find the others and get out of here. This expedition is over."

"Agreed. I hope nothing happened to Rosebud," Varric said worriedly. "Never mind she's the best friend I ever had, her father will kill me."

"If the darkspawn don't kill us first," Fenris commented, grabbing a rag to wipe his sword. "Carry what we can, leave the cart behind. We must move swiftly."

* * *

They'd done their best to clear a small space of debris, and an exhausted Hawke had convinced Anders they should rest for awhile before attempting to break free. He really couldn't argue; Justice had depleted every last drop of his mana protecting them from the cave in. Still, sleep eluded him. His mind was racing, going over every single detail of their conversation. She'd wanted to know everything about the process when he'd merged with Justice, and if he'd ever tried to find a way to separate himself from the spirit. It was unfathomable to Anders that she didn't seem a bit afraid now that she knew the truth. In fact, she had cuddled up against him when they'd finally decided to get some rest, and now slept within the circle of his arms.

Even with the bright red scratches and layers of dirt caked on her face, she was still so beautiful to him. He watched her eyelids flicker as she dreamed, and the gentle rise and fall of her chest with equal parts relief and desire.

She could have died. If not for Justice, they both would have surely perished.

He must have finally dozed off, because the next thing he knew, a pair of very soft lips were pressed against his own, and deft fingers were sliding along his jaw. He was about to protest that this was neither the time nor the place, when her warm tongue began to slide along his lower lip in the most delicious manner. He could not stop the low groan that emerged from deep in his chest, and he felt Hawke's mouth curve into a smile.

"Bout time you woke up," she said, then resumed the slow kiss.

What he knew, but Hawke did not, was that he'd been keeping an iron control over his desire for her. Their two brief kisses had barely touched the surface of his need for her, and now with his secret finally exposed, he found that the last of his control was gone.

His arms tightened around her, pulling their bodies together as his thighs captured one of her legs and pressed hard against her. At the same time, he caught her wayward tongue with his lips and plunged into her mouth. Her willing response unleashed a fierce need within him, and he was hardly aware of what he was doing as his hands began to work at the straps of her leathers.

It was Hawke's turn to moan when Anders finally found the soft flesh beneath her armor, and his mouth trailed kisses along her neck and then down to her breasts. His hands slid down to cup her bottom as he lavished attention upon their rosy tips. In that moment, Anders thought he would lose his mind if he couldn't have her soon.

"Hello?" came an echoing voice.

They both froze as the sound of rocks hitting against each other reached their ears.

"Amber! Are you here?" the voice came again.

Hawke recognized that voice. She pulled back slightly from Anders and called back, "Cullen?"

More sounds of shifting rocks and then Cullen's face peered down at them.

"Amber! Thank the…" Cullen began, but when he saw the two tangled together, he coughed and turned his head.

Hawke sat up and ignore the frustrated mumble from Anders. She quickly refastened her armor and then said, "Cullen! How did you get in here? Is there a way out?"

Cautiously, Cullen looked back at them, and smiled in relief when he saw they were both unhurt. "Yes," he said. "A side passage opened up when the walls caved in. This way." He gestured behind him.

Hawke climbed over the rubble and hugged the templar tightly. "It is so good to see you," she said. "I thought we'd rot in this place."

"Um, yes, well," Cullen stuttered, considering what he'd just witnessed between Hawke and the mage. "You're safe, that's what matters. Now, let's see if we can find a way back to the surface."

"Father's doing?" Hawke asked.

Cullen only nodded, more concerned with getting her to safety than providing explanations.

Anders joined them then. "Never thought I'd be glad to see a templar," he said, shaking Cullen's hand.

"First time for everything," Cullen said.

Hawke was already negotiating her way toward the side passage Cullen had indicated. "Chit chat later, gentlemen. We need to find the others."

* * *

Before heading out to the docks, Malcolm recruited his son Carver to join he and Ser Maurevar. It was more than he could have hoped for, his son finally getting to meet his namesake, and seeing the two interact while they moved through Kirkwall's streets just felt  _right_. Malcolm's struggles with Carver as of late had caused him endless amounts of worry, but Carver's attitude seemed to be improving, as well as his sense of responsibility to the family. Was it the attacks on Amber and Bethany? Or the death of Gamlen that finally sobered the boy into a man? Malcolm wasn't sure, but if something positive could come from all this, he was thankful.

The atmosphere at the docks had certainly changed with the presence of the Qunari. Dock workers, merchants, and passengers all congregated near the western port, while the eastern port was completely occupied by the horned ox-men. Malcolm held his head high as he moved toward the east, Ser Maurevar to his right and Carver to his left. He hated having to deal with diplomatic matters of the city; this was certainly Dumar's job and not his. But as usual, Kirkwall's Viscount hid in his office, indecisive about how to handle the Qunari  _threat_ , so Malcolm had no choice but to intervene. Unlike Dumar, he could see opportunity in even the worst of situations.

The platform was littered with swords and gear as the three men observed several Qunari dive into the choppy waters, no doubt attempting to salvage anything that remained from their damaged dreadnaught. The largest among them stood with his back toward them, until one of his companions alerted him to the Peacekeeper's presence. Gold plated horns brightly reflected the sun as the largest Qunari turned to eye Malcolm.

While others may have been intimated by the strong stare, Malcolm simply walked up to the large man unphased. "Malcolm Hawke, Peacekeeper of Kirkwall," he introduced himself.

"Arishok, leader to the Antaam," the large Qunari replied in a rumbling voice.

"Welcome to Kirkwall," Malcolm said, with a slight bow. "Though my reports tell me this was an unscheduled visit. You are requesting ships to return to Par Vollen?"

"Yes," the Arishok stated sharply. "Ours is beyond repair."

Malcolm nodded. "I'll see what I can do, though it may take some time. Until then, if you'll follow me, I believe I can at least provide accommodations for you and your men until I can arrange for safe passage."

He led the Arishok, and what Malcolm assumed to be his bodyguards, through the bustling crowd of the docks. Many stared at the sight of the Peacekeeper beside the large ox-man, whispering in hushed tones as they passed, but kept their distance in obvious fear. Kirkwall's history with the Qunari was far from a favorable one, a fact that remained in the back of Malcolm's mind, as well. He was determined not to let history repeat itself.

A few stone steps led them to a somewhat secluded area of the docks that had been vacant for decades. "I'm afraid we have little in the way of homes or shelter available for a group of your size," Malcolm told the Arishok. "But this area does have several underground rooms you may be able to convert into living quarters. If it's within our power, we'll be happy to gather provisions to make your stay more comfortable."

"We require no comfort," The Arishok said, surveying the location offered to him. "Has this area no worth to your city?"

Malcolm clasped his hands behind his back. "An old slave sorting area," he informed the Arishok. "We've no use for it now, but Kirkwallers tend to see the area as one of bad omen, and thus refuse to enter. I'm sure the Qunari do not pay heed to such superstitions."

The Arishok turned to look at him. "You would be correct," he said with less distain than he'd spoken with previously.

"Then if you need nothing further, I will take my leave," Malcolm said. "A messenger will visit at first light to retrieve your list of required supplies, which we will work on filling throughout the day. I will also send word to our neighboring cities inquiring about available transports to Par Vollen. You and your men are free to walk the city, should you choose."

The Arishok grunted in acknowledgement, but said nothing further. Malcolm turned to exit the compound without another word, Ser Maurevar and Carver close behind.

It wasn't until they reached the safety of Hightown that Carver released what felt like a long held breath. "Maker, that man was intimidating. However did you keep calm while he was staring you down like that?"

Malcolm grinned at his son. "The secret to being a good Peacekeeper," he whispered to Carver, looking around to make sure no one was listening. "Stand tall and proud when faced with fear, and piss yourself later."

Ser Maurevar laughed heartily at Carver's serious expression. "He's joking, of course. He's probably already pissed himself under those robes of his. That is why you choose black for your attire, isn't it Malcolm?"

"Oh how I have missed your lighter side," Malcolm said to his friend as they continued. "You will soon come to learn, Son, that Ser Maurevar Carver is as deadly with his insults as he is with a sword."

Carver smiled as the tension from the docks faded away in the company of his father and his namesake. "Will you be staying in Kirkwall long, Ser Maurevar?" Carver asked, a hint of hope in his voice.

"I have some unfinished business with your father, so yes," Ser Maurevar replied. "I'd also be interested in observing your progress with Virnan. Perhaps a sparring match after lunch?"

Carver's expression beamed with excitement. "That would be great! Anything I could learn from you would be appreciated. I've only had practice with a dual-wielder, but a real swordsman is what I really need."

"Then it's settled," Malcolm said. "I look forward to seeing the old goat get knocked on his ass by the younger generation."

"I don't know if I'm that good yet," Carver admitted.

Malcolm patted him on the back. "You will be, Son. Have faith. Let Maurevar teach you all of his tricks, and then use them against him. Best lesson in any fight."

"Unless you're fighting a mage," Ser Maurevar pointed out. "They incessantly cheat with their wide array of spells. Your father especially."

"I never cheat," Malcolm said as they reached the estate. "But if I must fight, I plan on winning, whatever the cost." As he opened the door he could hear feminine voices chattering inside. "Time to greet the ladies," Malcolm said with a grin. "I'm afraid my eldest is away at present, but Leandra will be glad to see you, I'm sure. And you have yet to meet the lovely Bethany."

Carver snorted. "Oh she's lovely alright."

"Mind your tongue, Son," Malcolm warned.

But Ser Maerevar was chuckling. "I see the apple really doesn't fall far from the tree."

With some effort, Malcolm kept his expression serious. "Let's not keep them waiting any longer."


	21. Chapter 21

Hawke nearly lost what little remained in her stomach when they finally found their way back to camp. Corpses of both merchants and darkspawn lay sprawled out before them, a gruesome scene of the hard fought battle. Tears stung her eyes as she counted each body, despair and guilt overwhelming her that she hadn't been there to protect them. Anders came up behind her, resting a hand on her shoulder as he too surveyed the area.

Cullen moved passed them to get a closer look at the bodies. All were soaked in their own blood, visible wounds and protruding bones among the carnage. He turned his head and coughed, almost choking from the sights and smells that were permeating the area. "We need to get out of here, and quickly," Cullen said.

"I don't remember inviting Curly to the party," called a voice from behind the supply cart.

"Varric!" Hawke broke free from Anders and ran toward the dwarf, embracing him with enough force that it nearly toppled them both.

"Do not crush our only way out of here," Fenris said as he approached the two.

Hawke pulled away from Varric, long enough to wipe her tears and move to tackle Fenris in the same manner. He rolled his eyes over her shoulder as he patted her back. "I despise this," he said.

"I know," Hawke said as she pulled away from him. "But after seeing…" she turned toward the merchants for a brief moment before looking away. "What happened?"

"Are any of you injured?" Anders asked as he joined them, Cullen close behind.

"Nah," Varric said. "We're fine. There were a few tremors and then the darkspawn were upon us without warning. Bartrand took off running, of course, we have no idea where he went. Bodahn and Sandal are alright; they're taking care of a giant ogre that nearly killed us all."

Hawke shook her head. "Just the two of them?"

Fenris smirked. "Just the one, I'd guess."

Varric led the others down the side passage to the giant frozen ogre that stood towering over Bodahn and Sandal. Bodahn turned when he heard them coming, a bright smile on his face. "It's so good to see you all alive and well," he told Hawke and Anders.

Cullen's eyes widened at the gigantic beast. "How in Andraste's name did that happen?"

"Don't know, don't care," Varric said with a shrug. "The better question, is what's a templar doing down in the Deep Roads?"

"Cullen saved us," Hawke told them. "It's a long story, one I'd rather tell on our way out of here."

"Good, more people to help carry supplies," Fenris said as they returned to the cart. "We have packed the basic necessities to exit this wretched place as swiftly as possible."

"We need to see to them first," Anders said as he nodded toward the corpses. "They deserve better than to have their bodies eaten by darkspawn."

Cullen agreed. "If you're not planning to use this cart, we could break it down, use the wood for a makeshift pyre."

"Won't that smoke out the tunnels?" Hawke asked.

"I can create an icewall to block off this section," Anders said. "A temporary solution, but it should buy us enough time to get out of the area."

"Alright then," Hawke said. "Let's get to work."

As they broke down the cart and set up the splintered wood near the frozen Ogre, Hawke and Anders told the others about the idol, the two men who had attacked them, and the cave-in. Cullen advised them that Malcolm had sent him to watch over Hawke, but left out the part where he was originally following the templar and the rogue. Malcolm didn't want his daughter to know about the direct threat against her, and so Cullen gave as few details as possible about his mission, including that he'd found Hawke and Anders in a rather intimate position.

Once the pyre was done, Fenris and Cullen moved the corpses of the fallen mercenaries to the pile, carefully stacking each one as best they could. Anders assisting in shielding the men, taking care that no darkspawn blood got on either of them. Bodahn, Sandal, Varric and Hawke stood off in the distance, sorting out the remaining food and water that they'd need and plotting their escape route.

Nearly an hour had passed before Cullen gathered everyone together and spoke a final prayer:

_O Maker, hear my cry:_

_Seat me by Your side in death_

_Make me one within Your glory_

_And let the world once more see Your favor_

_For You are the fire at the heart of the world_

_And comfort is only Yours to give._

Once he'd finished, Anders solemnly lit the pyre. "We shouldn't tarry," he said, motioning for the others to move away. He lifted his staff and a wall of ice then separated the group from the flames and smoke.

With one final glance back, Hawke followed the silent party to begin their long trek toward the surface.

* * *

For all her bawdy ways, and despite her buxom figure, Isabela was a rogue extraordinaire when it came to slipping silently and unseen into places she hadn't been invited. Not that she'd sought an invitation and been denied, but during her time with Hawke, she'd become very friendly with the lesser known ways into the sprawling estate. Almost as familiar as she'd become with Hawke's delectable body, but not quite.

Isabela suppressed a sigh as she slipped shadow-like into the Hawke's garden. She missed her friend, and even though she'd never admit it, was worried about her. Although she'd never been in the Deep Roads herself, she knew the dangers the expedition surely faced, and would be very glad when Hawke returned from her adventure and was safely back in Kirkwall. The city might not be safe, exactly, but at least Isabela could keep a watchful eye on her once she was home.

Her musings were interrupted by the sound of metal clashing against metal, and for a moment she was afraid someone was being attacked. Cautiously, she peeked through the bushes and relief immediately washed over her. It seemed Carver had found a new sparring partner.

With some interest, she took in the scene. Carver, dripping in sweat and very flushed, was countering the attacks of a much older man. Grey hair curled damply at his neck as he thrust his sword at Carver with the deft ease of someone half his age.

Carver was holding his own, but in her opinion was putting way too much effort into his parries. Apparently he'd forgotten her lessons in relaxation, and she decided that she'd have to remedy that situation very soon indeed.

The two men switched places then, giving Isabela a clear view of the stranger's face. She'd never seen him before, and wondered who he was. Definitely handsome, even in his advanced years, and more skilled with a sword than anyone she'd yet witnessed. Well, except for Fenris, maybe, but the elf's style was nothing like Carver's current partner.

Lost in her thoughts, Isabela nearly squealed when the older man suddenly called out, "Perhaps you'd like to join us, young lady."

Carver turned swiftly, and if not for Ser Maurevar's quick reflexes, the templar might have lost an ear to Carver's sword.

The word embarrassed was not in Isabela's vocabulary. Once she was found out, her natural instincts kicked in and she sauntered over to the two men, hips swinging provocatively. "Who's your handsome friend, Carver?" she asked sweetly.

Carver stammered a few incoherent words, but the aging templar stepped forward and bowed. "Ser Maurevar Carver, milady," he said, a twinkle in his eye.

"Isabela," she replied, and held out her hand.

Ser Maurevar grasped her offered hand and brought it to his lips. "A pleasure," he said.

"Wait a minute," Carver said, clearly uncomfortable with their exchange. "What are you doing here?"

"Just dropped by for a bit of fun, sweet thing," she said, her eyes still on Ser Maurevar.

"Yeah, well, you can see we're kind of busy," Carver replied grumpily.

"Now Carver, don't be rude," said Ser Maurevar. "Perhaps the lady would care to join us?"

Isabela laughed. "Like I said, fun!"

Faster than either man could see, Isabela pulled her daggers, sidestepped, and was behind Carver, one pointed blade held inches from his throat. "Tsk, tsk," she murmured. "Gotta work on those reflexes, big boy."

It was Ser Maurevar's turn to laugh, and soon the three were in a complicated dance of attack and defense. They continued on for the rest of the morning, Isabela's laughter and Carver's grumbling punctuating the air. Eventually, Leandra appeared announcing lunch was to be served. She eyed Isabela with some distaste and added, "You may join us, if you wish," before retreating back inside.

"Don't mind Leandra," said Ser Maurevar, shaking his head. "She's a bit too Amell for her own good."

"Oh, I never do," replied Isabela. "Go on, we'll catch up."

With a slight bow, Ser Maurevar departed, leaving her alone with Carver in the garden.

"What is it?" he asked, looking toward the templar's retreating form. "I'm starving."

"So am I," she said, and before Carver knew what was happening, she'd pulled him into a secluded spot and was kissing him senseless.

Isabela pulled back and, rather breathlessly, asked, "So that's who you're named after?"

Carver, whose hands were now doing things in interesting places, replied, "What? I mean, yeah."

"Excellent choice." And her mouth returned to his.

Needless to say, they were late for lunch.

* * *

Those that remained from the expedition hardly needed the map to find their way out of the Deep Roads. The two who had assaulted Anders and Hawke hadn't bothered to cover their tracks in their hasty retreat; every turn taken was either littered with darkspawn corpses or kicked up dirt with two visible sets of footprints. Varric commented on how it appeared the two were using the same maps he had. They passed the chamber where Anders and Hawke were attacked, pausing only for a few moments to thank Cullen again for rescuing them.

Varric pressed Hawke for details about the attack, insisting she repeat what the mysterious rogue had said to her. "It was as if he knew me and I had wronged him in some way," she told the dwarf. "He said he would finally have his vengeance by killing me, didn't even want to leave until the other one forced him to."

"You have no idea who they were?" Varric asked.

"None," Hawke said. "One of them was certainly a templar, but I don't think the other one was."

"They didn't use any names?"

Hawke shook her head. "No, I don't think so. Anders?"

Anders had remained quiet during the retelling of the story, apprehensive that Hawke may slip and mention Justice. But she had kept to the basic of details, and thus far had kept his secret. "It all happened so fast," Anders told them. "But no, I don't recall either one mentioning names."

"And the entire time you were following Amber, you didn't see these guys?" Varric asked Cullen.

"I was keeping my distance," Cullen replied, not meeting Varric's eyes. "The Peacekeeper was very clear in his instruction that Ambrosia not know she was being looked after."

Hawke laughed. "Guess you blew that one," she teased. "But in exchange for saving our lives, I suppose I won't tell Daddy."

"I appreciate that," Cullen said. "He would no doubt be furious."

"He's lucky I'm not angry he had me followed," Hawke stated. "But I know him, and thought he might do something like this. His willingness to allow me to come in the first place was suspicious."

"There should be a large room up ahead," Varric said, changing the subject. The last thing he wanted to do was get into a conversation about why Malcolm gave his permission for Hawke to join the expedition. He had his own guilt over keeping secrets from her, and he was well aware that both Fenris and Anders were probably feeling the same.

As they entered the room, Hawke moved toward the middle of four large stone pillars. Covering the stone floor were several rocks of various shape and size. "Another cave in?" she asked the others. "

"I doubt it," Fenris said as he looked up at the finely carved ceiling. He then knelt and picked up a smaller chunk. "The color is not the same as the other debris, and these white lines running through them… very strange."

"Could've been an ancient rock wraith," Varric told them, kicking some of the stones. "Legend tells of dwarves that are so corrupt even the stone rejects them, and they wander the Deep Roads as rock-like creatures. Most say it's just a myth, but I've heard many a tale from the Legion of the Dead that say they've seen these creatures first hand."

"Glad this one is dead then," Hawke said.

"Maker's breath!" Cullen's voice startled the others, and they joined him at the far corner of the room to see what had alarmed him. He was peering into a smaller room filled with gold, jewels, and various trinkets none of them had seen before.

"Shiny," Sandal whispered, eyes wide with wonder.

"What is all this?" Hawke asked, cautiously entering the room.

Varric shrugged. "Someone's treasure," he said.

"Or some _thing_ ," Anders added. "You should be careful…"

He tried to warn Hawke, but she was already knee deep in gold. "This is amazing!" she said, picking up a jeweled crown and placing it on her head. "You think the other guys missed this on their way out?"

"Doubt it," Varric said. "There are tracks all over this area. Either they found it, or my brother did, and carried as much as they could out of here."

"Which we will do the same," Hawke said, pulling her pack off her back and rummaging through the jewels. "Fenris needs new furniture, and Varric, well you could buy the Hanged Man with some of this. I'm sure Cullen can find use for some of these rings, a certain lady in your life perhaps?" she teased.

Cullen felt his cheeks flush, but knelt down to get a closer look.

"Maybe we shouldn't," Anders tried, but the others, including Bodahn and Sandal, were already loading their packs.

"Think of what a few gold coins could do for your clinic," Hawke told Anders, slipping a ruby into her pocket.

Anders sighed, but conceded to the excitement, and began rummaging through the treasure with the others.

* * *

"A cave in, you say?" Meredith asked the two men standing before her. Her voice took on careful, measured tones as she added, "And you saw her dead?"

Nathaniel scowled, but it was Samson who answered. "No way to do that," he replied. "The whole ceiling collapsed. She and that mage were buried under tons of stone."

The expression on Meredith's face was less than satisfied. "What of the rest of the party?"

Nathaniel spoke up. "There was a darkspawn attack, as well. We found no survivors."

"Lucky to have gotten out of their with our own asses intact," said Samson.

Still obviously displeased, Meredith asked, "So all you have brought me is an unconfirmed report of possible deaths?"

Samson grinned, apparently unaware of the treacherous ground upon which he walked. "Not at all, Knight Commander. I think we got what they were after." From his satchel he produced a bundle of wrapped rags. He offered it to Meredith as if it were a prized treasure. "Have a look at this."

Skeptically, Meredith took the bundle and unwrapped it with some distaste. Her look of disgust immediately vanished when she saw the softly glowing red idol. She said nothing as she ran her fingers over its gruesome surface; made no comment on its possible value. Instead, she seemed distracted as she reached into her drawer and pulled out a pouch filled with coin. She handed it to Samson. "You are dismissed," she said.

Samson happily took the payment and turned to leave.

"Wait a minute," said Nathaniel. "That's it? What about the idol? It surely…"

Meredith cut him off. "You were hired and paid for a task barely completed." She pointed to the door. "Dismissed."

Nathaniel reluctantly followed Samson out. Once the door had closed behind them, Meredith sat down at her desk and resumed her inspection of the idol. What would Malcolm Hawke want with something like this, she wondered. "You, my dear, will reveal your secrets to me," she said. "I can almost hear you singing them to me now." She stroked the idol lovingly. "Almost."

* * *

Across the hall, an unexpected guest had Orsino nearly bursting with rage. "I believe I made it perfectly clear that you and I were to no longer have any contact."

The tall man, dressed in a guard uniform, sat down in the chair opposite Orsino. "I was fine with that," came his reply, "until the agreed upon payment failed to arrive at the barracks. I'd hate to think that you were backing out of paying me after I so neatly set up Wesley Vallen to take the fall for your misdeeds."

"I'd be very careful with your words, Ser Hendyr," Orsino told Donnic. "It almost sounds like you're trying to blackmail me, and I'm sure the grieving widow would love to hear my side of the story."

Donnic laughed. "Do it, and the Peacekeeper becomes aware of your involvement in the attacks upon his family." He stood and bowed before the First Enchanter. "Don't keep me waiting," he added before exiting the office.

Orsino waited to hear Donnic's footsteps exiting the hall before slamming his fists on his desk. The very thought of this man threatening to expose him to the Peacekeeper had him livid, and immediately he began thinking of ways to eliminate this latest problem. He knew full well that even if he paid the corrupt guardsman now, he'd be back with his hand out again soon enough. Nothing was going to get in the way of the Hawke's demise in Kirkwall, especially not some low life guardsman. Though he couldn't dispose of Donnic right away without showing his hand, Orsino began to conjure other plans for man.

A knock at his door only agitated him further, and when Meredith let herself in, Orsino groaned. "Not now Meredith," he said, holding his tongue from the various insults he wished to bestow upon her.

Meredith ignored his greeting and shut the door as she entered. "I couldn't help but overhear," she said smugly, the grin on her face enough to make Orsino wish to strangle her.

"Whatever you overheard…" Orsino began.

Meredith cut him off swiftly. "Do not play me for a fool Orsino," she said. "I know what I heard." She settled into the chair Donnic had previously occupied. "And I believe we have a common enemy."

Orsino's eyes narrowed as he studied her. "Is that right?" he asked cautiously.

"Indeed," Meredith replied. "Perhaps it would be beneficial for us to work together on this."

The First Enchanter sat back in his chair, curiosity getting the better of him. "What did you have in mind?"


	22. Chapter 22

"Maker! Ambrosia, you're disgusting!" Leandra exclaimed when she saw her daughter walk in through the door.

"It's good to see you too, Mother," replied Hawke. She'd expected no better from her mother, but wished it had been her father, or even Bethany, there to greet her.

"Stay there," Leandra said pointing a finger at Hawke. "Don't you move one inch." She turned and called up the stairway. "Bethany! Bethany, come quickly!"

Hawke sighed and dropped her heavy pack on the floor, regretting that she hadn't accepted Varric's offer of a pint at the Hanged Man. She could have passed the time until her family was asleep and slipped in unnoticed.

A few minutes later Leandra returned with Bethany in tow, carrying a basket filled with large white towels.

Her sister's whispered, "I'm so glad you're back," was nearly drowned out by Leandra's fussing.

"Take everything off and put it in the basket," she said as she held up a towel in front of Hawke. "Go check the bath water Bethany, and make sure there is plenty of soap."

"Where's Father?" asked Hawke, pulling off her leathers. "And Carver?"

"Your father should be home shortly, and your brother is off somewhere with that... woman."

"Isabela?" Hawke asked sweetly. She knew very well her mother had nearly said  _harlot_.

"Hmph," was her mother's only reply. Her nose wrinkled. "You smell worse than you look."

"Is there anything to eat?" Hawke asked, deciding not to aggravate Leandra further. They'd run out of food the night before and it had been a long, hot trek on an empty stomach back to Kirkwall.

"After you bathe," Leandra said with a gesture for Hawke to hurry.

Hawke finished undressing and wrapped the towel around her now naked body.

"Upstairs with you! Go!" Holding the basket at arm's length, Leandra left the foyer.

Perfectly aware that there was no point in arguing, Hawke did as she was told. Besides, she truly did want a bath, desperately so. But it wouldn't have killed her mother to give her a bite to eat first.

To her surprise, Bethany was still in the bathing chambered when Hawke entered. "Sister?" Hawke questioned.

"I thought perhaps you could use some help," Bethany said. There was a flush to her cheeks that Hawke thought was caused by more than the steam rising from the tub. "And, I thought you might like this." Her sister lifted a tray from a nearby table with cheese, bread and a large goblet of wine.

Hawke was fairly astonished by her sister's thoughtfulness, but accepted the food gratefully. "You have no idea," she mumbled around the cheese she immediately stuffed into her mouth, "how  _much_ I like this."

It wasn't long before Hawke was neck deep in sudsy, hot water, nibbling from the tray and sipping sweet wine. She couldn't deny that she'd missed these luxuries. Adventures certainly sounded romantic, but their reality was actually rather gruesome.

"I really am glad you're back," said Bethany. Her delicate fingers were massaging fragrant soap into Hawke filthy hair. "I do hope all your friends returned safely, too."

Hawke suppressed a smile. She toyed with the idea of feigning ignorance, just to make her sister squirm, but at least Bethany had thought of Hawke's comfort, even if she'd only done it to pump her for information. But as soon as she remembered the bloody scene in the cavern, all teasing thoughts fled. "We lost a lot of people," Hawke told her, and the bread in her mouth suddenly tasted like ash. She swallowed hard and went on. "Anders, Varric and Fenris all made it back, as well as those odd dwarves, Bodahn and Sandal. " Bethany's fingers stilled as she seemed to wait for Hawke to say more. "And you'll never guess who we ran into. In fact, who saved me and Anders from certain death."

"Who?" Bethany asked, her tone an attempt at indifference, but she didn't fool Hawke one bit.

"None other than Ser Cullen." Hawke lifted her goblet in a mock toast. "Templar and savior."

No sooner had Hawke had spoken the words then Bethany's hands were gone from Hawke's head and she was drying them with a towel. "Amber..." she began.

"Go on," said Hawke, but before Bethany could slip out the door she called, "And Sister?"

Bethany turned back, her expression all anticipation.

"Thank you," said Hawke.

The smile Bethany gave her was the most beautiful she'd ever seen.

Hawke settled back in the tub, closed her eyes and sighed in pleasure. All that was missing to make this moment perfect was a certain blond mage.

* * *

Once Bethany had pleaded a headache to her mother and slipped out of the estate, she hurried through the streets on her way to the docks. The hour was late, and she had hoped to pass unnoticed through the gallows to find her templar before the sun set. If she were caught, however, she knew she could always use her father as an excuse.

Or so her addled mind believed. In her need and her haste she really hadn't thought things through very well.

Her cloaked figure drew some unwanted attention, but she ignored the catcalls and whistles and simply increased her speed. It wasn't until she'd descended the long flight of stairs toward the docks, and saw the giant horned figure standing guard before a closed gate, that she really noticed anything at all. Maker, was that a Qunari? She'd never seen one before, but assumed he must be given his size and grey skin. Pulling her cloak more tightly around her, she hurried past him, carefully avoiding his intense stare.

She could have screamed in frustration when she saw the small boats used to transport passengers across the water to the Gallows were all missing. A templar stood with his back to her, as if gazing across the bay.

"Excuse me," she said, and the man turned. She vaguely recognized him, but could not recall his name. "Could you tell me when a boat will be available?"

The templar instantly recognized the Peacekeeper's daughter. "Mistress Bethany," he said with a slight blow. "Shouldn't be long, if you don't mind waiting." He pointed to a nearby bench.

"Thank you," she said, and reluctantly took a seat. One foot tapped impatiently on the wooden planks while her teeth worked hard at her bottom lip as she watched the sun disappear over the horizon.

After a few minutes, the templar spoke. "Ah, here comes one now."

Bethany forced herself to remain seated, but leaned forward, attempting to spot the boat. Even in the dim light she could see the transport held three men. Not wanting to be recognized, she pulled her hood down low over her face.

It wasn't long before she heard voices, and her heart sped as she realized they were familiar. Her father, Ser Maurevar and Cullen. She briefly considered running away, not wanting to explain herself or hear her father's censure for being at the docks alone. But her desire to see Cullen outweighed her fear, and she stood to her full height as she readied an excuse in her mind.

Malcolm disembarked first, and she ran to him. "Father!" she exclaimed. "I was just coming to get you!"

"Indeed?" he asked. "It must be important for you to have come out alone at this hour."

Forcing a smile on her face and careful not to look toward the other two men, she told him, "Amber is home!"

"I am aware," he said, returning her smile, but she could see the knowing look in his eyes. "I must, however, have a brief word with the Arishok before returning home." He looked over his shoulder. "Ser Cullen, would you be so kind as to escort Bethany back to the estate?"

"Of course," Cullen replied with a nod.

"I will see you shortly," said Malcolm, and he and Ser Maurevar moved off in the direction of the newly appointed Qunari compound.

Left alone with Cullen, Bethany suddenly felt awkward. She'd been so desperate to see him, but now she couldn't think of a single thing to say.

"It's good to see you," Cullen said in a neutral tone, breaking the silence between them. "I hope you've been well."

"Very well, thank you," she replied, inwardly cursing her inability to say what she really felt.

They walked on in silence for a time, the tension building, until Bethany could barely stand it. She saw the entrance to a dark alley not far ahead, and throwing all caution to the wind, grabbed his hand and practically dragged him into the shadows.

"Wha…?" Cullen began, but she silenced him with a kiss.

Cullen stiffened at first, causing her to feel silly and foolish for being so impulsive, but before she could pull away, his arms wrapped around her so tightly she could scarcely breathe. A low moan arose from his throat as he deepened the kiss, causing a responsive heat to form low in her belly. She couldn't get enough, could not give him enough, and would have gladly have had him take her pressed up against the cold stone wall if not for his blasted armor.

"Bethany," he whispered, lifting his mouth from hers. He rained soft kissed over her face. "We can't. Not here."

Tears of frustration filled her eyes. "I need you," she insisted, trying to capture his mouth again.

Cullen evaded her attempts and pressed his cheek to hers. "I will make... arrangements," he promised.

"But where?" she said, actively crying now. "I can't go back to the Rose, not after…"

"Shh," he soothed, stroking her hair. "I'll figure something out. Trust me, I have missed you just as much, if not more."

"We could sneak into my room," she suggested, already plotting ways to get him there.

Cullen laughed softly. "So eager," he said. "No man could ask for a better welcome home."

His words reminded her of how afraid she'd been for him while he'd been gone, sobering her passion. She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly. "I'm so glad you've come back to me."

Cullen returned her embrace. "You never left my thoughts." He pulled back slightly and looked into her eyes. "Tomorrow morning. Meet me by the gates."

"Tomorrow?" she complained. "Is there no other way?"

He ran a finger down her cheek. "I will make it worth the wait, I promise you."

She hated that he was right, but she couldn't argue. "It will be a sleepless night."

Cullen smoothed her hair and straightened her cloak. "Yes, I'm afraid so. But we have no choice." He looked her over and smiled. "You look like a woman who's been thoroughly kissed."

"Not nearly enough," she teased him, and lifted her face to his.

He only pressed his lips briefly to hers before taking her arm and leading her back to the street. "Tomorrow I will remedy that."

* * *

Wonderfully clean and incredibly tired, Hawke wandered down the hallway to her room, imagining how amazing it was going to be sleeping in her soft bed once again. Yet, she wasn't at all disappointed when she opened the door and saw her father sitting in a chair by the window.

"Father!" Hawke shouted in delight, and Malcolm barely stood in time to catch his daughter when she threw her arms around him.

"Amber," he murmured against her hair as he hugged her tightly. "I don't think I've ever been so glad to see anyone."

This was the welcome home she'd so longed for. Hawke pulled back and kissed him on the cheek. "I've missed you terribly, too."

"Come," he said, and led her to the bed where they sat on the edge. "I know you must be exhausted, but perhaps a small chat before you get some much needed sleep?"

Feeling very awake now, Hawke replied, "There's nothing I'd like better."

"Tell me about your adventures, then," he said with a smile.

For a time, Hawke told him nearly everything that had happened in the Deep Roads. She carefully omitted how close she and Anders had really come to being killed, and negated the threats of the two men into merely an exchange of angry words. She told him of the strange, glowing idol, and of the deaths of the mercenaries, but never mentioned Ser Cullen. Instead she simply told him that they'd found a side passage after the ceiling had collapsed.

"But how did you survive the cave in?" Malcolm asked, clearly puzzled. "The whole ceiling raining down upon your heads?"

Hawke hesitated for a brief moment. Anders' secret was not hers to tell, not even to her trusted father. She could not, however, lie to him. "As it turns out, Anders is more than a simple healer." She smiled reassuringly. "He is, in fact, a very powerful mage."

"Are you telling me he was able to protect you both from tons of falling stone with a force shield?" he asked.

"Yes. I could hardly believe it myself."

Malcolm whistled through his teeth. "No wonder the Grey Wardens wanted him. But tell me, what of the two men who made off with the idol?"

"They escaped," she said. "We followed their trail back to the surface, but rain had washed away any further tracks they may have left. Thankfully though, as we were in no position to hunt them down on our own, given the exhaustion and dwindling supplies."

Malcolm filed that bit of information away for later investigation. "A wise decision. It seems I owe Anders my daughter's life for a second time."

Hawke blushed, remembering what else she'd got up to with Anders deep under the ground.

Malcolm noticed his daughter's pink cheeks right away. "You really like him, don't you?" he teased.

Hawke's smile lit up her eyes. "I think I do."

"From what I've seen so far, he seems a good man," Malcolm said. "Just do be careful, my dear. Don't rush into…"

"Father!" Hawke exclaimed.

"Fine," he said with a chuckle. "I'll stay out of it as long as there are no tears involved."

They talked a bit longer before finally Malcolm took hold of her hand, his expression somber.

As perceptive as her father, Hawke immediately noticed the change in his mood. "What is it? Is it Carver?" She'd lived in dread for years that one day Carver might not survive one of his drunken nights. Though her mother had told her Carver was in Isabela's company, Malcolm often knew more about the goings on in Kirkwall than Leandra. Had something happened?

"No, Carver is fine. More than fine, in truth." He squeezed her hand. "It's your Uncle Gamlen."

She breathed a sigh of relief at the news of her brother. "Gamlen? What's he done now? Is he alright?"

"There is no easy way to say this, I'm afraid. Gamlen is dead. He was poisoned."

"Poisoned?" Hawke gasped. "By who?"

"The matter is under investigation," he replied. "It was your brother who found him."

"Carver found him?" Hawke repeated. She seemed to be doing a lot of that. "That must have been horrible. But you said he was fine. He is, right?"

"He is fine, yes. I think the experience affected him deeply. It's as if he's become a new man entirely." Malcolm shook his head. "I can hardly believe it myself."

"But what about…." Hawke began.

Malcolm smiled and said, "No more questions, dear daughter. You can speak to Carver yourself tomorrow. Tonight you need rest."

Hawke knew better than to push him, and she was tired. She stifled a yawn. "Breakfast in the morning?"

Malcolm stood and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "In the morning," he agreed.

Gamlen dead, Hawke thought once her father had left the room, and she was snuggled under the blankets. But even that sad news could not prevent her exhaustion from sending her quickly into a deep, much needed sleep.

* * *

Meredith and Orsino sat quietly as the brown haired mage was brought into the room by two templars. The mage's eyes widened when she saw who was waiting for her, but she remained silent as the shackles were removed from her wrists. She rubbed the tender skin as she took a seat from across the two of the most prominent figures of Kirkwall, a curious brow raised in Meredith's direction.

"Leave us," Meredith barked at the templars. They did as instructed after only a slight hesitation, having brought the mage up from the deepest cells of the Gallows - cells reserved for known blood mages and those awaiting Tranquility. It wasn't until the holding room door was closed and locked that the Knight-Commander spoke again. "Amelia."

The mage sat back in her chair, a smug expression crossing her face. "Meredith," she said with disdain. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"You will show the Knight-Commander some respect," Orsino interjected. Though he'd never admit to Meredith that he knew very little about the imprisoned mage, he wasn't about to have someone under his charge be so informal with the commander of the templars.

Amelia laughed. "Oh you've trained him well," she said to Meredith. "Please, good kind Knight-Commander, do tell me how I may be of service?" she said in a mocking tone.

Orsino's face turned red with anger, but Meredith stopped him from speaking further. "It's alright Orsino. I am quite familiar with Amelia's lack of respect for authority. We go back a long way, she and I."

"And yet I've been rotting in my cell for over a decade without so much as a visit," Amelia stated. "So whatever this is must be important."

"More important than you could possibly imagine," Meredith told her. "We have a job for you, one I think you'll find particularly enjoyable."

Amelia leaned forward in her chair, clasping her hands as she placed them on the table. "What makes you think I'd be willing to do anything for you?" she asked.

"It would mean your freedom," Orsino told her bluntly. He already disliked the mage's cheeky arrogance, and saw no reason to engage in games.

"Yeah right," Amelia said, and gestured toward Meredith. "There's no way she'd let me out of here. In case you haven't caught on yet First Enchanter, that woman despises me. Has kept me locked away for years without so much as a glimpse of sunlight. And now in exchange for some job, I am to walk out of here? Over her dead body, I can assure you."

"He is correct," Meredith told her. "You complete this task successfully, and you are free to go."

"Just like that?" Amelia asked with narrowed eyes.

"Just like that," Meredith stated. "However, we must warn you, this will not be easy. It will take time and skill on your part. The slightest suspicion that you have deviated from the task and you will be dragged back here and locked up again for the rest of your life."

"Now there's the Meredith I know," Amelia said, sitting back again. "Alright, tell me more about this job?"

Orsino reached into the inner pocket of his robe and retrieved a parchment. On it was a sketch of a man, and he slid the picture across the table to Amelia. "This is your target," he began. "You need you to get close to him, infiltrate his circle of friends. We hear he has a soft spot for mages that are treated unfairly; preparations have already begun to spread rumors about your unjust imprisonment."

Amelia studied the picture closely, tracing the features of his face with a finger. "His name?" she asked.

"Anders," Meredith told her. "He runs a clinic in Darktown, unlawfully healing refugees and the lower scum of the city."

"You don't say," Amelia said. "Would he happen to be the same Anders that arranged for Karl Thekla's release?"

"What do you know about that?" Orsino asked, a worried frown creasing his brow.

Amelia grinned. "Prisoners talk. Karl was in the cell across from mine when he was sentenced to be made Tranquil. He told me all about Anders." Amelia thought for moment. "You know, these rumors of yours could take weeks, even months. Have you any idea where Karl is now?"

"We do," Meredith said. "Why?"

"A well worded letter to Karl would and he would surely reach out to Anders for assistance in my release, far quicker than any scheme you two have concocted."

Meredith shook her head. "Out of the question. Who would believe you got a letter out of the dungeons? He'd know better than anyone the impossibility of it."

Amelia laughed. "You really don't know your templars, do you," she said. "Everybody knows a good cock-sucking can get you pretty much anything around here."

Orsino gasped. "You can't be serious!"

"Quite serious," Amelia responded. She undid the top three straps of her robe to reveal her breasts, covered in a thin lacy undergarment. "How do you think I got this? I'm sure even you recognize that it's not the standard issue breastband."

"Cover yourself up this instant," Meredith scolded as she stood. "Do not make me regret offering you this opportunity."

"Oh relax," Amelia said as she re-tied the strings of her robe. "I'm just saying that maybe you should include me in further details of this plan of yours… I may be able to help. She lounged back in her chair, seemingly at her ease. "And what do I do after I've become friends with this apostate? The conditions of my freedom? It sounds like we have much more to discuss before I'll agree to anything."

Meredith walked toward the door and tapped on it with her knuckle. "We will continue this tomorrow," she said. "Too much time together could arouse suspicion."

"I look forward to it," Amelia said as she gave Orsino a malicious grin. "Can you provide some pastries? It's been ages since I've had a treat."

Orsino looked toward Meredith, and she nodded. "I'm sure that can be arranged," he told her.

Amelia stood as the two templars unlocked the door and entered. "Thank you First Enchanter," she said with a respectful bow, before she was shackled and led out of the room.

"Are you sure this is a good idea, using her?" Orinso asked Meredith once they were alone. "The woman is clearly unstable."

"To obtain her freedom, she will get the job done," Meredith told him. "Whatever the cost."

"I get the feeling you aren't telling me everything," Orsino dared to say. "Just what is your relationship with this mage?"

Meredith kept her ice-blue eyes fixed on Orsino, devoid of all emotion, when she told him. "She is my sister."


	23. Chapter 23

The Peacekeeper had kept his word. Anders returned from the Deep Roads to find his clinic well-ordered and clean. Someone must have taken care of things while he was away.

Yet now, it was eerily empty, quiet. His only comfort the lingering smell of pungent herbs.

As tired as he was, he took the time to wash off the dirt and grime he'd so successfully collected on the expedition. His robes would need a thorough cleaning; for now he would fall back on his spare, old and a bit threadbare. The grey fabric still hummed of magic when he lifted it from the trunk. Apparently he hadn't done the best job of cleaning it before he had stowed it away, as there were still a few stray hairs clinging to the cloth, the exact silvery shade of Ser Pouncelot's fur.

Everything readied for the morning, Anders crawled into his narrow cot wearing only his smalls, and inhaled a long, slow breath. He stared up into the shadowy heights of the the ceiling, willing his body to relax.

It didn't feel right to be away from her now. As conflicted as he was about his feelings for Ambrosia Hawke, he couldn't deny he had them. In some ways he hardly knew her, the pampered daughter of privilege and nobility. Often it had seemed to him she had chosen her friends from among those who would most shock her mother. But then he'd seen the tears in her eyes when they'd found Varric and Fenris still alive, shooting that theory to the void.

There was also the way she hadn't treated him at all differently once he'd told her the story of Justice. The same easy teasing. The same mischievous smile and constant touches.

He rolled over, trying to erase the picture of her that had so firmly fixed in his mind. He really had no business pursuing the peacekeepers daughter. He had nothing to offer her - no name, no home, no life beyond the walls of his dingy clinic. He rolled over again.  _Maker_ , why was he even thinking these things? They'd hardly done more than share a few kisses!

Except for after the cave in, a small voice said in his mind, and suddenly the image was of Hawke lying beneath him after he'd removed her...

"Stop!" He said aloud and abruptly sat up, his eyes searching among the potions and scattered papers for something that would erase her from his mind. His gaze rested on the letter he'd received from Karl, letting him know he'd survived the Joining and arrived safely at his new post. But not even the memory of his former lover's warm eyes could not banish the image of Hawke's rosy skin displayed so alluringly before him.

_Damn the templar._

It seemed an eternity before his exhaustion finally won out, and he fell into a fitful sleep, only to dream of a certain dark-haired rogue, teasing and tempting him into the wee hours of the morning.

* * *

Bleary-eyed and irritated, Hawke stomped down the basement stairs, her temper in full swing. "Andraste's flaming ass, what are you two doing down here at this unholy hour?"

Isabela and Carver stopped mid-strike and gazed up at Hawke, standing a few steps from the bottom wearing on her nightshirt.

"Amber!" Isabela smile, and ran over to her. "Good morning, sweet thing," she said, pulling Hawke into a tight hug. "You look absolutely adorable all tousled and pink."

Hawke couldn't help but return the embrace. "I am not pink. My face is red because I am very angry."

To her surprise, Carver pulled Isabela away and gave her his own, if somewhat awkward, hug. "Good to have you back, Amber," he mumbled.

Completely disconcerted by his unusual behavior, Amber patted him on the back. "Thanks, Carver. But you still didn't answer my question." How odd to be so near to her brother and not be choking from the smell of old liquor. He actually smelled quite good, despite the sweat dripping from his brow.

"We're training," Isabela said happily. "Your little brother is becoming quite the swordsman."

"When did this happen, exactly?" Hawke asked. Apparently she'd missed quite a lot while she'd been away. Is this what Father had meant when he'd hinted that Carver was doing better?

"I...uh…" Carver stammered.

"No time for chat now," Isabela interjected. "Come on, big boy, we have to work on those reflexes."

Hawke sat down on the step and watched in amazement as the two returned to their swordplay. Or daggerplay. Whatever.

Her head still heavy with sleep, she had trouble focusing on the quick darts and tumbles of her brother and Isabela. It was too early yet for breakfast with Father, and she found her gaze drifting in a lazy survey of the room. Wine racks covered nearly an entire wall, and she wondered idly how they'd managed to avoid breaking some of the bottles, the way they were tumbling about. Dusty cobwebs filled the corners, and several doors leading into storage areas were the extent of the… wait. Her mind suddenly went back to the night Mother had sent her in search of the Aggregio, when she'd noticed the large, metal door, held fast with a wooden lever. With everything that had happened since then, she'd never come back to see where it led.

Carefully avoiding the combat zone, Hawke skirted along the wall until she reached the mystery door at the very back of the cellar. She pressed her ear to it, but could hear nothing from the other side. Was it a good idea to open it while wearing only a nightshirt? She shrugged. Probably not, but her curiosity was stronger than any apprehension she felt.

Hawke literally jumped when Isabela called out, "Find something interesting?"

She turned to see her friend approaching, while Carver stood panting heavily, frowning at her.

"It's a door," Hawke said.

"I can see that, silly." Isabela said. "But where does it lead?"

Hawke grinned. "Let's find out."

"Let's, " agreed Isabela, apparently as eager as Hawke.

"Wait!" Carver shouted. "Are you two daft? You have no idea who or what could be out there."

"Exactly why we're going to open it," Hawke said. Ignoring Carver's continued protests, she lifted the lever and tugged on the metal handle, but the door wouldn't budge. "Stuck."

Isabela tried too, without success. She shook her head. "My guess is it's locked from the other side."

"Good thing, too," Carver said, coming to stand near them.

Hawke shot him a dirty look. "How do we find the other side if we can't get through?"

"Hmmm," Isabela murmured. She lifted her chin and closed her eyes in thought. After a few moments she offered, "I'd bet somewhere in Darktown."

"How do you figure?" Hawke asked.

"Darktown's sewers run underneath the whole city," Isabela said. "The question is why would anyone want to have access to them."

"That's not hard to guess," said Carver. "Slavers, of course."

"True!" said Hawke. "Mother hates it when we talk about it, but the grand Amell estate was owned by a Tevinter Magister back in the old days." Her smile was wicked and full of mischief. "Anyone fancy a trip to Darktown later?"

Carver groaned, but Isabela laughed and said, "Count me in, sweet thing."

* * *

Upstairs, Malcolm Hawke was just beginning his daily routine of sorting through messages, missives, and notes for various meetings while indulging in his morning tea. He had another hour or so before the promised breakfast with his daughter, so he took this time to also gather his thoughts. He found it rather curious that his daughter had neglected to mention Cullen's involvement in their Deep Roads adventure, and wondered what her possible motive for the omission could be.

Ambrosia Hawke was much like her father, Malcolm conceded. Choosing not to bring up Cullen meant one of two things: either she was waiting for him to admit he had her followed for her own protection, or she was holding on to that information for future use. Much the same as he would, and had done on more than one occasion, when it came to negotiations and tactics. His eldest child hadn't simply forgotten; she was testing him. The question Malcolm asked himself now was, should he bring it up to her? Or allow her to think she has the upper hand?

It was impossible not to dwell on such a small matter. Hours of chess with his daughter had proven to Malcolm time and time again that she was as stubborn as he, unpredictable, and very calculating in her actions. She was waiting patiently for his next move, and for the first time in a while Malcolm felt the thrill of a challenge, because he wasn't quite sure what that move should be. Cullen was forthcoming with all that had happened, as she would surely know he would be. His darling daughter was testing him, he had no doubt.

A knock at his office door interrupted his thoughts, and Malcolm looked up as Ser Maurevar entered. "Good morning. Too early for that debriefing?" he asked as he sat across from Malcolm.

"Not at all," Malcolm said, gesturing for his friend to have a seat. "Overdue in fact. It seems we've become quite distracted since your arrival. Tea?"

Ser Maurevar shook his head. "No, thank you. I've another sparring bout with that son of yours scheduled for later today, relaxing now would be my downfall. He's becoming rather skilled, no doubt from the assistance of that exuberant rogue he's been working with."

Malcolm couldn't suppress his laughter. "Ah yes, Isabela. Quite the character that one. As beautiful as she is deadly. Thankfully she has aligned herself with my children instead of working against them."

"You might want to remind Leandra of that," Ser Maurevar offered. "Quite the cold reception when she interrupted our training yesterday."

The Peacekeeper was comfortable enough with his friend to release a heavy sigh before venting some pent up frustration. "I adore my wife, and Maker knows she tolerates more than her fair share, being married to a man in my position. But this overwhelming need she has to increase the Hawke status is only going to cause rifts within the family."

Ser Maurevar raised a brow. "There's more than just the disdain for the pretty rogue at work here? Do tell."

"Carver was not Isabela's first conquest," Malcolm informed him. "She and Amber had something between them a time ago. Now Amber is developing something with an apostate, and Bethany is involved with a templar. But this hasn't stopped Leandra from attempting to marry them off into a higher social standing. She's already selected one of the DuPuis' from Val Royeaux for Amber, and one of the de Launcet girls for Carver. The Prince of Starkhaven is arriving in Kirkwall this morning, and my wife is upstairs plotting ways to introduce him to Bethany."

"Sounds like you have your hands full, old man," Ser Maurevar said with a commiserating chuckle.

"I've no doubt this is a deflection, her way of handling my 'relationship' with Meredith," Malcolm said.

"Speaking of," Ser Maurevar began, "I've received some interesting information from the conclave."

Malcolm groaned. "I can only imagine what news you bring."

"Yes, you are quite lucky your specific position of power does not require you to attend," Ser Maurevar noted.

"I take it Lambert and Lucius are still at each others throats?" Malcolm asked. "Your report on the last conclave and the rumors around the Gallows led me to believe one would have killed the other by now."

"It may come to that," Ser Maurevar said. "They both have such vast opinions on the current matters at hand; Lambert's a changed man since Orlais."

"So I've heard," Malcolm replied.

"Lucius asked to speak with me privately after the conclave," Ser Maurevar told Malcolm. "Made mention that Lambert suspected a cover up of some sort involving your Knight-Commander. Has she shared with you her story on why she became a templar?"

Malcolm nodded. "She has. The devastation her sister caused in Kirkwall is still whispered about to this day, though Meredith has proven to this city more than once she means to make up for that black spot on her family name."

"According to Lucius, Lambert does not believe Meredith's sister was slain, as originally stated in the reports," Ser Maurevar said. "He's been asking for witnesses, accounts of the events from the elder templars that were assigned to Kirkwall at the time. Lucius doesn't know why he's taken such a sudden interest in Kirkwall or Meredith, but I thought I'd give you fair warning in case he decided to appear unannounced."

"I'd welcome the visit," Malcolm said with a mischievous grin.

Ser Maurevar narrowed his eyes at his old friend. "You clever bastard. You are behind this investigation, aren't you?"

Malcolm continued to smile. "I've suspected for some time. Meredith doesn't speak of her sister often, but when she has, there have been a few past tense mishaps that made me question whether the mage still lived. At such a young age, I'm uncertain how Meredith managed to convince templars to falsify reports and hide her sister, but if I can use this information to have her removed from her position, it was worth the risk going to Lambert."

"You are a brave man Malcolm Hawke," Ser Maurevar said. "Let us hope your Knight-Commander doesn't find out who is behind the investigation. She could make life quite miserable for you."

Malcolm sighed as he nodded. "She already does, my friend. She already does."

* * *

Donnic paced the confines of the cramped quarters, his frustration growing with each step he took. His meeting with Orsino had gone badly. Imagine, the elf had the nerve to threaten him with blackmail! He was beginning to doubt he'd ever see a single copper from the mage. Bugger was half senile, anyway.

Yes, he'd gotten what he wanted: Wesley out of the picture, which left no obstacles between he and Aveline. But he'd been counting on that coin. The pay of a guardsman was barely enough to live on as it was, and now that Aveline was no longer married, she was being reassigned back to the barracks. Jeven would likely return any day, leaving no chance she'd be assigned the coveted captain's quarters. As small as this place was, it was still leagues above a crowded bunk room.

What made him the most angry, however, was the feeling he'd been  _had_. Cheated. Used.

"Donnic?"

He'd been so engrossed in his black thoughts, he hadn't heard Aveline come in through the door. There she was, standing on the threshold, arms crossed over her chest and a puzzled frown on her face. "What's going on?"

He hadn't meant for her to see him like this. Had been carefully playing his assigned role of comforter to the grieving widow. But in that moment, she seemed the cause of his problems as much as that stupid elf.

"Donnic, answer me!" she demanded, and took a step into the room, closing the door behind her.

It was all just too much.

"Leave it, Aveline." He stopped pacing and now stood with his fists clenched at his sides. He wanted to break something. Like her freckled face.

"What nonsense is this?" she asked, her frown deepening.

Donnic ground his teeth and through narrowed lips told her, "It means exactly what I said. Leave. It."

Aveline's eyes widened. "How dare you use that tone with me."

Donnic had withstood about all he could take. He closed the distance between them and towered over her. "You might be acting guard captain, but don't presume you can order me around like you did Wesley." He could feel the heat of his anger rising to his face as his ire increased. "Mind your own business," he practically spat, and before he could do something he'd later regret, he stomped out of the room, leaving Aveline futility calling after him.

* * *

Amelia watched silently from her cell as the templar lit the torches throughout the dungeon's halls. The shadows from the flames danced along the stone walls, and she greeted each one by name. "Welcome back, my friends," she said, following the flickering fire's movements with her eyes.

"Daft whore," the templar said, shaking his head as he exited the dungeon.

Oh, the things she wanted to do to that templar. Silently she cursed their standard procedure of smiting her upon entrance, as she imagined all the ways she could bring pain to the man. The enchantments preventing her magic were more than enough; the additional precaution was no doubt the templar's way of humiliating her and reminding her who was in control.

_For now_ , she mused, as she paced her small cell.

The long list of those she'd seek revenge upon grew with each new templar to visit the lowest level of the Gallows, but Amelia reminded herself that patience was a necessity in this situation. Soon she would actually be free. She'd play the game her sister had mapped out for her. It could be no worse than what she'd had to do to survive among the templars, she was sure. And, if that mage was half as handsome in person as his sketch was, she might actually enjoy certain aspects of it. Only upon her task's completion would she return, revisit and wreak havoc on every man who had dared to touch her over the long years. Those pleasurable thoughts invaded her dreams, and she always awoke with a smile.

A small loose stone skittered across the cell, and she knelt to retrieve it. Testing its edge with her thumb, Amelia was nearly overwhelmed with joy to discover it was sharp enough to pierce her skin. She sat on her straw bed and cut a thin line across her palm.

Though the enchantments on her cell prevented her from channeling any real power, the flow of blood pooling in her hand still caused her body to tingle with its potential. She could hear the faint whispers from the Fade, all calling out to her just outside of reach. How she longed to hear them again, along with the screams of her victims. She could still see the bodies of the dozens she had slaughtered in her youth, feel the power coursing through her veins as they all fell, one by one, running from the very sight of her. The smell of their blood in the air, so heavy she could almost taste it upon her lips.

Yes, she would play Meredith's game if it meant the freedom to feel that power again. She would then call to the voices that enhanced her power, and bring destruction to Kirkwall once more, starting with the very woman granting her that freedom.

With her fingertip, Amelia swirled the small pool of blood that had gathered in her palm, already imagining her sister's lifeless eyes staring up at nothing.


	24. Chapter 24

"You think this is it?" Hawke asked. As soon as she'd finished breakfast with her father, she'd gathered Isabela and Carver to accompany her to Darktown, where they now stood in front of a massive door.

"Has to be," Isabela replied, pulling out her tools. "And it's right outside Anders' clinic, too. How convenient." She gave Hawke a cheeky wink.

"Yeah, but if we unlock it, how will we lock it again?" grumbled Carver. "We can't leave an open invitation for all of Darktown to visit the estate."

"Get a blacksmith, silly," said Isabela as she inserted the pick and began testing the lock.

Hawke had been idly staring at the closed clinic door, when an idea struck her. "Perfect, yes. Run up to Lowtown, Brother, and fetch us a smithy."

"Me? How am I supposed to know where to find a bloody blacksmith that specializes in locks?" Carver asked.

"Ask Varric," Isabela piped in. "He knows everybody."

"But…" Carver began.

"No buts," Hawke told him, and gave him a little shove. "Off you go!"

Knowing his sister well enough to understand arguing was futile, Carver stomped off. As soon as he was out of earshot, Hawke poked Isabela in the back. "Sooooo," she drawled. "You and Carver, huh?"

"Hey!" Isabela exclaimed. "I almost had it, now I have to start over."

"Don't avoid the question."

Isabela returned her attention to the lock as she said, "I didn't plan it, if that's what you're asking."

" _It_ , huh? What exactly is  _it_?" asked Hawke.

"A bit of fun, of course," Isabela replied. "There!" A satisfying click sounded, and she stood and turned to Hawke. "Don't tell me you still haven't done  _it_ yourself, sweet thing."

Hawke felt her cheeks heat, as her gaze again drifted to the clinic door, before returning to Isabela. "Let's open the blasted thing if you've got it."

"Oh no you don't," Isabela said, laughing. "You mean to tell me all that time in the Deep Roads and the two of you didn't…."

In answer, Hawke only stalked over to the door and began to push.

"Really, Amber," Isabela continued to prod. "Where's my eager girl? Just what are you waiting for?"

"What's going on here?"

Both women turned to see Anders standing just outside the clinic, looking at them with some interest. "Amber? What are you doing here?"

For once, Hawke actually couldn't think of a single clever comeback. Isabela's teasing had brought up all sorts of thoughts about what she wanted to do with Anders, and now to have him standing in front of her, looking  _oh so tempting,_  was just a bit much.

As the silence stretched into awkwardness, Isabela spoke up. "Good morning, Anders. We've just been securing a way for you and Amber to enjoy romantic trysts without the watchful eye of the Peacekeeper." And with that she gave a final hard shove on the door, which finally opened.

"What are you talking about?" he asked, avoiding Hawke's gaze. He walked over and peered into the darkness. "What is this place?"

Hawke finally found her voice. "It's my basement," she said, slipping past him into the cavernous room. Even in the gloom she could see the wine bottles glimmering along the wall.

Suddenly Anders was pushed against her, and the door slammed shut behind him with a loud thud. Isabela's muffled voice came from the other side. "Have fun, you two! I'll just go see about Carver." Another  _snick_ sounded as the lock clicked back into place.

"Isabela!" shouted Hawke as she banged on the door. "Come back here and open this at once!"

She kept this up for a bit until Anders took ahold of her wrist and pulled her away. "She's gone," he said.

"Blasted pirate," Hawke muttered. "I'm sorry Anders. We'll have to go through the estate."

"Is this really your basement?" he asked, ignoring her apology. He hadn't moved and was standing very close, his fingers still wrapped around her arm.

Hawke was glad it was too dark for him to see the blush she knew reddened her cheeks. "Yes." She sighed. "It's a long story."

"Mhm," he murmured, releasing her wrist. He brushed his cheek against her hair. "I like stories."

His sultry tone slipped into her ear and shivered down her spine. "It's really very long," she said, no longer caring about how they had ended up alone. Together. In the dark. Her hands found their way around his neck and she tangled her fingers in his hair.

Anders inhaled a long, slow breath. "You smell like flowers."

Her playful nature returning, Hawke whispered to him. "You smell good enough to eat." And it was true. His scent was intoxicating, making her hungry, but not for food.

Anderds found he could not call to mind a single one of the reasons he'd so laboriously gone over during his sleepless night to stay away from her. Everything seemed paltry compared to the overwhelming need he felt for this woman, who was at that moment so wonderfully pressed up against him. He cradled her face in his hands and said, "A taste then," before lowering his lips to hers.

This kiss was different, Hawke could feel it. His mouth on hers was tender, yet insistent, commanding. For the first time she allowed him to set the pace, relaxing against him as she suppressed the nearly overwhelming desire to devour him.

The thought flitted through her mind that with Isabela there had always been a sense of urgency, a fast-paced rush to fulfillment. This slow and gentle exploration was something different, yet somehow more exciting. She could feel every nerve in her body coming to life just from his simple kiss.

Anders ran his tongue along her lower lip, while his hands caressed her face and her neck. She could feel his fingers trembling against her skin, which incited her even more. It was a sweet torture that she never wanted to stop. So, when after a time he lifted his head, she mewed in protest.

"Amber," he said, and he ran his thumb over her lips. "We can't, not now. I have to get back to my patients."

Of course, his clinic. What was she thinking? She nodded and said, "I'll show you the way." She started to move away, but he pulled her back.

"Soon," he said, and then he was kissing her again. "Maker help me, soon."

* * *

Messengers dressed in the finest attire appearing at a noble's home was something Leandra was quite used to. Invitations to balls, tea, sport among men, they all came via the elite couriers so common in Hightown. So when she opened the door later that morning, she wasn't surprised to see yet another request for some social gathering. When the messenger informed her that the rolled scroll was for Mistress Bethany Hawke, however, Leandra did her best to suppress a gasp of surprise.

"Bethany!" Leandra called as she closed the front door. She fought all temptation to unroll the scroll and see just who was calling upon her daughter, as she waited for Bethany to meet her in the living room.

A few moments later Bethany descended the stairs, her hair pinned back in several places as she'd been in the middle of styling the long black locks. "What is it Mother?" she asked, fussing with the ties on her peach-colored day dress.

"This just arrived for you," Leandra said excitedly, handing her the scroll. "You're first courtship? And from a noble no doubt, given the messenger's dress. Open it, you must tell me who is calling for you!"

Bethany felt her cheeks flush as she carefully unrolled the parchment. Of course her mother would accept no less than nobility for her daughter, and she was probably already planning the wedding in her mind. But it wasn't someone high in society that Bethany was interested in hearing from today; she had spent the morning preparing for her rendezvous with a certain stunningly handsome templar, and entertaining her mother's curiosity was the least of her concerns.

She read the letter silently to herself at first, crinkling her nose at its contents. Leandra's gasp of impatience prompted her to reread it aloud:

_Mistress Bethany Hawke:_

_Ser Brandon Stanton cordially invites you to a private gathering, high noon, at Rosemary's Tea Room in Hightown. Standard casual dress applies._

"I am not familiar with the Stanton's of Kirkwall," Leandra said, her face puzzled. "But the Tea Room! And the quality of the parchment! It must be someone very important, perhaps just arrived from Orlais."

"Nor am I familiar with the name," Bethany replied. "It matters little, however, as I have other plans for today."

Leandra scoffed at the notion of ignoring such an invitation. "You will not be so dismissive about this Bethany," she told her daughter. "Clearly you have caught the eye of someone important enough to secure Rosemary's for an event; you simply must attend."

"But Mother..." Bethany tried.

Leandra would hear no further protests. "Go finish your hair darling, I'll retrieve one of my necklaces for you to wear."

Bethany frowned as she returned to her room. Whatever this gathering was, she cared little, but would make an appearance for the sake of the Hawke name. An hour or two at most, and then she'd politely excuse herself, feigning ill. That was the plan at least, until she arrived an hour later at the infamous tea house.

"Welcome to Rosemary's," an unusually tall elf greeted her upon entering. The decor of the establishment was breathtaking; as if seated in the middle of Orlais, the tapestries and rugs were a mixture of gold, green, and maroon colors. Each table in the main room was set with crystal glasses of water, porcelain gold-rimmed teacups, and various treats and finger sandwiches. Finely dressed elves scurried about attending to the nobles gathered there, many of whom Bethany recognized from other social events. Father had always scoffed at the idea of wasting hard earned coined at such an ostentatious place, but Bethany knew Leandra was particularly envious of her at this very moment. Bethany, however, felt slightly foolish, dressed in her casual dress as the invitation had requested.

"I am here for the Stanton party," Bethany told the elf, who grinned brightly upon hearing the name.

"Ah, yes, Mistress Hawke?" he asked.

Bethany nodded, and the elf bid her to follow him up the stairs. The two moved silently through the main room, the smell of vanilla and almond enticing her with each step. She nodded politely at the various greetings aimed her way, but did not stop to talk. Though she knew nothing of her host or what the next few hours would entail, she very much looked forward to sampling the various teas.

The elf halted his steps before a large, black leather covered door, and gestured for her to enter. "Enjoy the afternoon Madam," he said before scurrying away, leaving Bethany to herself in the large hallway.

She took a deep breath before opening the heavy door, and stepped into one of the private rooms of the establishment. The first thing she noticed was the large luxurious couch set beneath a stained-glass window of a red rose. The walls were aligned with various drapes of red and gold, and in the center of the room was a small, intimate table, with seating for two. This was no gathering of nobles as she was led to believe.

"I am pleased to see you've arrived," a voice came from behind her, and Bethany nearly jumped in surprise.

When she turned to greet her host, she was overwhelmed with relief. "Cullen!" she exclaimed as she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him into a tight embrace. "I have never been so happy to see you."

"Truly? I'd thought my return from the Deep Roads would've topped this." He returned her embrace for a time, before pulling back just enough to graze her lips with his. "Surprised?" he asked as he released his hold on her.

"Beyond," she whispered, taking in the beauty of the room again. "Brandon Stanton?"

Cullen's mischievous grin delighted her. "A bit of my brother and I combined," he informed her, taking her hand as he led her to the couch. "And may I just say, you look absolutely stunning."

"You may," Bethany smiled shyly at the compliment as she sat beside him, sinking into the soft feel of velvet beneath her exposed legs. "This is amazing, Cullen. So unexpected, and so beautiful. However did you manage to pull this off? I hear the waiting list for even a table here is nearly a full season."

"Templars may on occasion pull a string or two," Cullen told her, gently caressing the back of her hand with his fingers. "Especially with a well placed word from the Peacekeeper of Kirkwall."

Bethany gasped. "Are you saying my father was a part of this elaborate ploy to get me out of the house?" she asked.

Cullen grinned. "He was indeed. He cares a great deal for you, surely you know that, and only wishes your happiness."

"Then he truly knows just what I need to be happy," she whispered, staring into his eyes.

"Oh?" Cullen leaned closer, cupping her chin with his free hand. "And just what do you need to be happy?"

Bethany closed the distance between them. "You," she replied, before bringing her lips to his once more.

* * *

Dinner at the Hawke estate was a mostly quiet affair. Only Leandra chattered on in her usual manner, seemingly oblivious to her husband and children's lack of response. Even Ser Maurevar was silently eating, a pensive expression on his face.

Bethany's thoughts were in a riot. She had no idea how she would make it through yet another night, waiting for the sun to rise so that she could see Cullen once again. She had hardly been able to part with him when they'd left Rosemary's, even though she'd been so incredibly sated from their afternoon of passion. Just thinking of the ways he'd brought her pleasure made her shift in her seat.

As if the movement had caught Leandra's eye, she turned to Bethany. "You have yet to tell me of your afternoon social. Who was there? Did you find out any more about the Stantons? Where are they from? What are their connections?"

Bethany did her best not to blush at the mention of how she'd spent her afternoon. "Really, mother, so many questions."

"It's been ages since I've been to Rosemary's," Leandra said wistfully. "You must tell me all about it."

"Leandra," Malcolm interrupted, "I forgot to mention that the Viscount will be holding another ball soon, in honor of Saemus coming of age."

Bethany smiled, knowing her father could have not distracted her mother with a better subject. She breathed a sigh of relief when Leandra, filled with glee at such a prospect, shifted her attention and questions toward her husband.

As soon as the meal was finished and everyone had scattered, Bethany considered seeking out her sister. Maker knew Amber already seemed to know something about her relationship with the templar, and perhaps talking about it would ease her troubled mind. She'd never spoken to her sister about anything so personal before, however, and found she had no idea where to begin. So, in the end she decided to skip out of the house for some fresh air. Perhaps a brisk walk would clear her head and tire her body enough to make sleep possible.

There was no need to make her excuses as she retrieved her cloak and left the estate, because there wasn't a soul in sight. Standing outside the door she could hear the merchants in the square closing up shop for the day, and wanting to avoid the bustle, set off in the other direction.

Without quite knowing where her feet had taken her, Bethany found herself standing at the bottom of the steps that led up to the Chantry.  _Why not?_ she thought. It would give her a chance to sort through her conflicting emotions in relative peace. Even knowing that her father apparently approved of her relationship with Cullen, she knew that her mother would forbid any such union. She could hardly believe her own wishes had come to this point, having always believed that when she found a suitable man of nobility, the dalliance with her templar would come to an end. She hadn't counted on missing him so terribly while he was gone, or just how much her own feelings would make themselves known to her in his absence.

As she made her way up to the pews, she could hear hushed voices coming from the area of the pulpit. One was certainly Grand Cleric Elthina's, but the other was male, with a strange accent. Once she'd reached the top, Bethany glanced down and saw Elthina in close conversation with a dark-haired man in shiny, white armor.

Elthina happened to look up at that moment, and she lifted a hand and said, "Bethany Hawke. What brings you to the Chantry at this late hour?"

"I'm sorry, Grand Cleric, I didn't mean to disturb you," Bethany replied.

"Not at all, child. Come down here and meet my visitor," Elthina said. "Prince Sebastian Vael of Starkhaven."

The man turned, giving Bethany a view of his handsome features. A pair of bright blue eyes stared up at her.

A prince? What was he doing in Kirkwall? She couldn't very well refuse Elthina's offer, so she retraced her steps until she was standing before the two. "Bethany Hawke," she said and curtsied.

"A pleasure," the prince said, studying her with some interest.

Bethany waited, expecting to feel impressed or at least enticed, but she could only think of Cullen and wonder if he too was thinking of her.

To be polite, Bethany inquired, "What brings you to Kirkwall, Prince Vael?"

"Sebastian, please," he said with a chuckle. "Grand Cleric Elthina has been so kind to help me find an appropriate candidate to lead Starkhaven's Chantry."

Elthina nodded. "Reverend Mother Allysia is of an age to retire, and we have several worthy young Mothers here in Kirkwall fit for the role." She turned to Sebastian. "I will set up the interviews for the morning."

"Thank you, Grand Cleric," Sebastian said, his eyes never leaving Bethany. "I will admit I would have come to Kirkwall much sooner if I'd know you were hiding such beauty within your walls."

Bethany ducked her head to acknowledge the compliment, but only said, "I hope you enjoy your stay, Prince Vael. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must be home before dark."

"I could accompany you," he said, taking a step forward.

"I thank you, but no. It's just a short way." With another slight curtsy, she hurried away.

What was wrong with her? she wondered as she left the Chantry and practically ran down the steps. She'd just met a prince, and all she could think of was how to get away from him as quickly as possible! She must be losing her mind. It was exactly the opportunity she'd been anticipating, for as long as she could remember, and she'd acted like a boorish peasant instead of a lady of grace and nobility. She considered again of how her affair with the handsome templar was to have been no more than an amusing diversion to pass the time, but now?

Now, she was afraid it had been a mistake, because he'd not only invaded her willing body, but her heart, as well. All her good sense and noble aspirations paled in comparison to how much she wanted to be with Cullen.

Had she doomed herself to a life beneath her station by playing so blithely in matters she did not truly understand? Maker's breath! What was she going to do?


	25. Chapter 25

There were times when Leandra couldn't help but curse her own stubbornness, which was the case as she stood amidst the mess and clutter of Malcolm's office. A servant or two would take care of it in short order, but she just couldn't bring herself to allow strangers into her home. Really, she wished Malcolm would confine his work to the Gallows, but he used his office at home just as much, if not more.

She gathered the dirty tea cups and wine glasses onto a tray, and then set about picking up the random papers scattered over the floor. It was then that she noticed a particularly expensive looking scroll crumpled up next to the waste bin.

Knowing she shouldn't pry, but unable to quell her curiosity, she picked up the scroll and smoothed it out on Malcolm's desk.

_Honorable Peacekeeper Malcolm Hawke,_

_I have lately arrived in your fair city, and it would do me great honor to host you and your family at a private dinner._

Leandra scanned over the details of the invitation, but her eyes were immediately drawn to the elegant signature at the bottom.

_Prince Sebastian Vael of Starkhaven_

Prince Vael! Here, in Kirkwall? And Malcolm threw his letter away? For a moment Leandra was torn between outrage and excitement, but the latter won out as she realized the invitation was still for two days away. How could her husband so carelessly neglect his daughters' futures? It was doubtful that Prince Vael would find Amber at all appealing, but her Bethany would make the perfect princess.  _Royalty_! It was beyond her wildest dreams!

To make up for Malcolm's rude behavior, she decided she would go to the Chantry and accept the Prince's kind offer in person. Leandra could barely contain her glee as she freshened up and left for the Chantry.

She'd just entered the courtyard when she heard a voice calling her name. She turned to see who it was, and couldn't have been more surprised.

"Quentin!" she exclaimed. "It's been years!"

"Leandra," said the man, approaching her. "You look absolutely lovely." He took her hand and brought it to his lips.

Old feelings resurfaced as he placed a soft kiss on the back of her hand. Quentin had been Malcolm's main rival in marriage back when she had still been Leandra Amell, the most sought-after girl in Kirkwall. She still remembered the thrill of being pursued by two such handsome young men, even though her parents had not approved that both were mages. Quentin had been so very charming and extremely persistent, but it was Malcolm's kiss that had set her afire. Even so, she'd always wondered if she'd made the right choice. Yes, she was the Peacekeeper's wife, and her social standing was secured, but with that came so much unpleasantness, such as his liaisons with that wretched Meredith woman. Those thoughts had her greeting Quentin with much more enthusiasm than she might have done.

"It's so good to see you," she said. "What brings you back to Kirkwall?"

Quentin looked slightly uncomfortable for a moment, but it soon passed and he smiled. "Just cleaning up some old business," he said. "Rather boring, I'm afraid, but seeing you again makes the trip more than worthwhile."

"Quentin, how you do go on," Leandra said with a twittering laugh.

"Perhaps you'd do me the honor of accompanying me to tea? We could catch up, reminisce."

Leandra glanced toward the Chantry steps. She couldn't delay her current mission and lose this precious opportunity. "I'm afraid I can't today," she told him, genuinely disappointed. "Tomorrow?"

Quentin smiled again. She'd always adored his smile. "I look forward to it," he said. "Shall I call for you at noon?"

"Yes, that would be lovely," she agreed.

"Until tomorrow then," Quentin said, and bowed.

"See you then," Leandra told him happily. Her spirits soaring, she hurried on to the Chantry to secure Prince Vael's invitation.

* * *

Hawke crouched low behind a large boulder as she listened for the caravan to pass along the trail below. In both hands were her daggers as she waited, steadying her breath to calm her nerves. Normally when Meeran demanded a job from her, it was a simple shakedown for coin, or some idle threat against a Lowtown thug would suffice, but this was big. This was unlike any job he had asked her to do before, and her nerves were causing her hands to shake; not a good sign if she hoped to be successful.

The road between the Planasene Forest and the Vimmark Mountains was heavily travelled, and if she were to succeed, Hawke knew she'd have to be quick in her actions. Why couldn't they have travelled from Val Royeaux to Kirkwall by way of the Waking Sea? Then she wouldn't have been assigned this job, and she'd be concocting ways to lure Anders into the cellar instead of continuing to pay for Meeran's silence.

Hawke wondered idly if it would've been simpler to have killed Meeran the day he approached her about the slanderous information he'd received about her family. Then he wouldn't be blackmailing her, she wouldn't be forced to do jobs like this that were in direct conflict with her father's work, and she wouldn't be living this double life. Dutiful noble daughter by day, thief and killer by night. She fought hard to restrain the tears that stung her eyes; her father would be so disappointed in her, even if she was only doing this to protect him and the family name.

The sound of carriage wheels along the dirt road alerted her to the caravan's pending arrival, and Hawke took another deep breath before giving the signal to the other Red Iron mercenaries, who were laying in wait, that it was time to act. A few well placed arrows flew from the cover of the trees, and the carriage's horse bucked in fear, coming to a sudden halt. Orlesian guards surrounded the carriage, scouring the treeline for the source of the attack.

More arrows rained down from the distance, causing the distraction Hawke needed to make her move. She climbed the boulder and then leapt in the air, dexterously landing atop the roof of the carriage. Slicing through the canvas top with her blade, she quickly scanned its contents, looking for the small chest Meeran had described. When her eyes found the supposed treasure among the travelling provisions, she reached in and retrieved it. Cursing the weight of it as she placed it under her arm, Hawke exited the carriage and began to run for the forest.

"She has the package!" Hawke heard one of the guards yell as she sprinted toward the treeline. Covering her retreat, the Red Iron mercenaries redirected their arrows into the growing distance between Hawke and the guards. It was enough to slow them down while Hawke ran as fast as she could.

A sharp  _thwack,_  followed by a searing pain in her side, nearly caused Hawke to stumble, but she continued on into the forest. To stop now would mean her capture, and worse yet, failing the mission. The chest grew heavy in her arms the further she went, but she could still hear the guards moving through the trees. There had been no plan beyond getting the package, only survival and then delivery. Pushing her body's limits Hawke kept moving, fear and adrenaline sustaining her.

The time allotted to her by the mercenaries was enough to create false tracks toward a cabin she'd spotted in the distance, and then Hawke doubled back. As she hid behind a large oak tree, she waited several minutes until the guard ran past, following the trail she had created. Allowing herself just a moment to catch her breath, she waited until she was certain they had reached the cabin before running in the opposite direction. They'd be stalled for a time while interrogating the occupants, giving her the chance to escape them for good.

Before doing so, Hawke took the opportunity to set the chest on the ground and began working on the lock. Its weight was slowing her down; retrieving the contents before continuing on would be beneficial. Thanks to Isabela's expert teachings, she was opening the iron box within seconds. Inside the velvet lined chest was a book; leather bound, old in appearance, and when she lifted the thick cover to reveal the text, she found it was written in a language she did not recognize.

When she stood with only the book in hand, Hawke was reminded of the wound she had received by the sudden stab of pain in her side. She quickly removed a glove to run her fingers along her leather tunic, checking to see if any blood had soaked through the armor. Still dry, and finding no holes from an arrowhead, she assumed it was no more than a bruise, and continued on before the Orlesian guards could find her.

* * *

Bethany sat curled up in a chair staring dismally at the note she'd received from Cullen. Duty called, and he would not see her today. It was so disappointing. She was fresh from her bath and had applied his favorite perfume to all the right places, only to have the stupid letter arrive, dashing her hopes. It would be the first day since he'd returned from the Deep Roads that they would not meet.

Granted, some of their trysts had been merely a stolen hour here or there. Brief though the interludes were, they were enough, if barely. Since their afternoon at Rosemary's, Bethany had been spending a lot of time examining her heart, and also attempting to logically think through what she really wanted. After many self-reflecting hours, she'd finally come to the conclusion that she was in love with her templar. Truly, deeply, violently in love in a way that she never would have imagined in the beginning.

She knew full well that those in the Order rarely married, but it was clear to her now that was exactly her wish. True, he was only a Knight Captain now, and their life together would be somewhat meager, at least at first. But she had her dowry and Cullen was sure to gain stature within the Templars. He would almost certainly be Knight Commander one day.

All her dreams were nothing more than that, however, because she had no surety that Cullen felt the same. He was passionate, attentive and very kind to her, but was that only because her father was Peacekeeper? She didn't believe that his motives were mercenary, not at all. He was too honorable a man for that to be the case. Yet, it was possible he was simply enjoying their affair for its convenience, and had no aspirations of building a life together.

It would all work itself out in time, she supposed, but at least she had come to a resolution, and no longer felt conflicted. She wanted to be his wife, beyond all doubt.

Bethany looked up when she heard her mother calling her name. She tucked the note away and composed her features, determined to prevent Leandra from asking unsuitable questions, or find any hint of Bethany's true feelings.

"Bethany!" Leandra said as she hurried into the room. "Oh my darling daughter, you'll never guess what news I bring!"

"I can guess that it's good news," she replied, taking in her mother's wide smile and flushed cheeks.

"The best news! There could be none better!" Leandra pulled a crumpled piece of parchment from her pocket and waved it in the air like a flag. She was practically glowing. "We are to dine with Prince Sebastian Vael," she said eagerly. "A prince, of all things!" Leandra leaned down and pulled Bethany into a tight hug. "You shall be a princess, my darling, I just know it."

* * *

"I appreciate you coming to the estate," Malcolm said to Anders as they entered his private office at home. "Though I assume this was probably more convenient for you than the Gallows?"

Anders barely contained his laughter. "With all due respect, I fear you are the only mage free enough to come and go as you please as far as that place is concerned," he said, taking a seat opposite Malcolm.

"Not as freely as it may appear," Malcolm stated with a sigh. "I have received some troubling news that I'm hoping you can shed some light on," he continued, retrieving a parchment from the inner pocket of his robes. "The two men that confronted you in the Deep Roads, I have learned of their identity. One I am all too familiar with, and will be handling personally. But the other, his motives elude me, and I'm hoping for your assistance on the matter."

"Me?" Anders wasn't clear as to what help he could be. "What would I know?"

"Your time in Amaranthine may be invaluable to me," Malcolm told him. "This other man, his name is Nathaniel Howe. I believe he was at Vigil's Keep during your time there with the Wardens."

Anders was impressed, but not surprised, that Malcolm would be aware of his history. The moment the apostate entered the city Malcolm probably knew everything there was to know about him. If not that moment, then certainly the moment he became involved with the Peacekeeper's daughter. "I had heard Nathaniel was captured by the Wardens just before my arrival," Anders confirmed. "But we had never crossed paths; Solona had ordered his release while I was recovering from my Joining. Rumor was he made several threats on his way out, blaming Solona and the Wardens for ruining the Howe name."

"He is looking to make good on those threats," Malcolm informed Anders. "As the Hero of Ferelden is difficult to reach these days, it seems Nathaniel has targeted my family instead. An eye for an eye of sort, I suppose; I am aware Solona killed his father, and now Nathaniel wishes to seek revenge on any Amell within reach."

"Do you think he was working with Wesley?" Anders asked.

Malcolm shrugged as he leaned back in his chair. "I don't know. I can't imagine how those two would be connected, but it is a valid possibility. I had hoped you knew more of him."

"I'm sorry I don't have more information on the matter," Anders said. "But I may be able to get word to Solona."

"A task her own family has been unable to do?" Malcolm questioned. "Leandra has been trying to reach her to no avail."

"We have mutual friends who are far easier to reach," Anders replied. "Your daughter's safety is important to me, as is your family. And I am indebted to you, for Karl. I will do whatever I can to assist, you have only to name it."

Malcolm stood, extending his hand. "I appreciate that Anders."

The mages shook hands. "I must get back to my clinic, but I will send word immediately," Anders said. "I will let you know the moment I have news."

* * *

Hawke slid through Kirkwall's streets like a shadow, the large book clutched tightly to her chest. In a stroke of luck, she'd managed to lose the other mercenaries, along with the Orlesian guards. The pain in her side was making it difficult to breathe and she was afraid the bolt she'd taken had cracked a rib or two, but she forged on, her instincts driving her home.

The uneasy feeling she'd had since Meeran had assigned her this job had grown into an almost overwhelming paranoia. By rights, she should be handing the book over to Meeran at this very moment, but everything in her said it wasn't right, not at all.

When she finally drew near to the estate, she hid behind some barrels to survey the scene, and was very glad she did. Even in the dark she could make out two Red Iron men lurking not far from the entrance.

_Plan B_ , she thought, and silently took off in the direction of the Chantry. There was the only place in Kirkwall where she knew she would remain safe and undetected - in the home of the best swordsman in all the Free Marches. Or  _swordelf_ , she thought, and nearly broke into a fit of giggles. Maker, she must be exhausted to find any humor in this situation.

It wasn't long before Hawke was carefully avoiding the traps Fenris kept scattered around the ground floor of his mansion. It was doubtless unnecessary with Danarius dead, but she of all people knew old habits died hard. She stopped upon reaching the stairway and let out three long, low whistles. It seemed like forever, though it was only minutes, before Fenris emerged from his room, his shock of white hair faintly glowing in the dim light.

"Hawke?" he called softly.

"It's me," she confirmed, and laboriously made her way up the steps. She could only imagine the ugly bruise that must be blooming under her armor.

"Is something amiss?" he asked, eying her carefully.

"Very amiss," she agreed, and nearly fell over when she reached the top.

Fenris caught her and kept her on her feet. "You are hurt."

"Not much," she lied. "I just need to sit down."

He helped her into a chair by the dying fire. "What is this?" he asked, pointing to the book still clutched against her chest.

Hawke held it out to him, and winced from the effort. "I'll explain later," she said. "Could you tuck it away somewhere safe for now?"

Fenris nodded and took it from her. Once he was gone, she began to undo the straps of her armor to relieve the unbearable pressure on her ribs. A thrill of fear rose up her spine as she realized the pain was just below her heart. It still hurt to draw breath, but with her leathers loosened there was some small relief.

Fenris returned a few minutes later, a dusty wine bottle in his hand. "Here," he said, holding it out to her. "It appears you could use a drink."

Gratefully she accepted the bottle and took a long swallow of the sweet, red wine. "Thanks, Fenris."

He only nodded and sat in the chair across from her.

"I think I'm in big trouble," she said.

"I gathered as much," replied Fenris. "You do realize that the book I hid away is an ancient Qunari relic?"

"Shit," said Hawke. "Shit, shit, shit."

Fenris retrieved the wine bottle from her and took a drink before saying, "I will need to hear the whole story."

And so Hawke told him. She didn't see that she had any choice, as her problems had suddenly grown too big for her to handle alone. Qunari relic? She swallowed hard, and told him of Meeran's threats, the blackmail and the nasty jobs she'd been forced to take, just to keep him quiet. It was a relief to finally tell someone, to admit how she'd been spending so many of her nights, but now it seemed her troubles had increased exponentially.

"When the Arishok fails to receive his revered tome, it will not be pretty," said Fenris.

"If I don't deliver it to Meeran, it will be downright ugly," she said grimly. "Maker's breath, what am I going to do?"

Fenris looked thoughtful for a moment before he replied, "You have already begun. Allow your friends to help you."

"I never wanted to drag any of you into this mess," Hawke said, shaking her head.

"Foolish girl," said Fenris. "This from the woman who ended my life of slavery at great personal risk."

The smallest of smiles curved Hawke's lips. "I did, didn't I?"

Fenris chuckled. "You did. But now, you must rest. You are obviously on your last leg." He stood and added, " I will send word to your father that you are here, and have kindly agreed to help me for a few days."

Hawke winced as she also stood. She had no energy left to argue. "Thank you, Fenris."

"No need. I will return shortly, Hawke."

Fenris watched as she settled herself into his bed, then went downstairs and reset the traps. He had a lot to accomplish before dawn, and his first stop would be the clinic.


End file.
